


Accio My Heart

by waspabi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chaos, Dragons, M/M, Nonsense, joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 98,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waspabi/pseuds/waspabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry makes too many Care of Magical Creatures similes, Liam is a facsimile of a sham of a lie of a Prefect, Zayn is handy with the hexes, Louis thinks petty rivalry is for winners, and Niall divines the future (and the future is chaos). Those who don't learn history are doomed to repeat it, and those who get off with fit strangers in club loos are doomed to find them at the staff table come their seventh year. </p><p>A Harry Potter post-war AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry Styles and the Horny Hippogriff

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://tweedlebeebum.tumblr.com/post/55977274743/listen-i-just-really-want-a-harry-potter-au-where).
>
>> listen i just really want a harry potter au where all the boys are in one house and they have a marauders-esque type relationship. anyway summer before sixth or seventh year harry sneaks into a bar and hooks up with this really fit older bloke named nick in the bathroom - who’s only in london for a short while before “going up north for a new job" - at the back and its great. their personalities just click and the sex is fantastic (even though it’s in the toilets) and harry kisses nick goodbye and tells him his name, saying to look him up if he’s ever back in the city. 
>> 
>> and he kind of puts it out of his head - except not really, because nick was really fit and really hilarious and harry’s surprised by how much he liked him despite only having spend a few hours together. he’s telling zayn about it in a hushed voice as they step into the great hall, and then he chances a glance up at the professor’s table and feels his heart fucking freeze because that’s him right there. 
>> 
>> that’s harry’s nick from the bar, and he’s professor nick grimshaw, their new defense against the dark arts teacher /o\

"We are going to _rule_ that fucking rock tower!” Louis slams the neon green shot glass back onto the table and pumps both fists in the air. “Bring more shots, universe, we are about to fucking _own you_!” 

Harry looks down at the table, littered with glasses that look like animals. Something that used to hold firewhiskey tries to breathe fire but can’t manage it. It’s so cute Harry wants to die. He pockets it, stealthily. The club can’t possibly mind. It is a tiny dragon, it deserves a tiny home in Harry’s pocket. 

Louis is banging on the table now, his face red and excited. “C’mon, lads, traditional cheer, all together now!” He brings another drink to the centre. Harry knows the words by heart and he shouts along with them. “Seventh year, drink more beer, fuck your NEWTs when liquor’s clear!” 

It’s a Gryffindor cheer. Obviously. 

They knock back their drinks, whooping. The five of them have been planning this night all summer. It’s sort of half end of summer bender, half Liam’s 18th birthday, and all hedonism, all let’s drink as much as we can because tomorrow we’ll have curfews. The boys had needed to do quite a bit of persuading, but in the end all of their parents had agreed to let the lads take the Knight Bus to London and stay over at Harry’s sister’s tiny flat. It’s the 31st of August, the night before the Hogwarts Express takes them up to Scotland for their final year at Hogwarts. 

Harry is positive that his mum knew they weren’t exactly going to play Exploding Snap and eat chocolate frogs tonight, but he’s of age now. Sure, he can’t Apparate yet — his birthday came too late for last year’s lessons — but he can do magic outside of school and he can vote and he can drink himself absolutely sick in this loud, crowded club. Harry’s pretty sure it is called the Horny Hippogriff, but that’s an image he doesn’t really want in his head, so he focuses on the shots instead. 

Harry grins at nothing in particular. Shots are aces. Clubs are aces. Everything is aces. “I love you guys,” he says, with immense feeling. 

“You’re okay,” says Niall promptly, shrugging stone-faced for an entire three seconds before laughing hysterically and pelting Harry with peanuts. 

“We love you too, you nut,” says Liam, warmly. Liam isn’t nearly drunk enough for someone whose birthday was two days ago. Harry says as much. 

Louis nods enthusiastically. “Harold you are a wizard and a scholar. You will ace all of your NEWTs and be put in the Hall of Lords.” 

“That’s not how that works,” says Zayn, who had paid attention in Muggle Studies. 

“You’ll get crowned by the Duchess of Kentshire,” continues Louis, unabated. “You’ll have a ship named for your majesty and everyone will call you your lordness.” 

“Yeah, really not how that works,” says Zayn. 

“You’ll have a vote over all of England and most of Ireland, so that’s Niall’s kidney and left knee and his liver made of leprechaun tricks, and you’ll sit in a very fine throne.” 

“Actually, House of Lords doesn’t have a vote anymore,” says Zayn. 

Louis waves a hand. “Irrelevant, Malik. Haz, I’ll get you a drink whilst I’m up, how’s that.” 

Harry knows Louis will end up drinking his drink, but he says thank you anyway. Louis and Liam disappear off to the bar. Harry looks towards the mass of pulsating bodies in the centre of the room. “Do you guys wanna dance? I wanna dance.” 

Zayn never wants to dance, and Niall is busy writing lewd things on peanuts. Harry goes off alone. 

The lights pulse in time to the beat of the music and Harry feels warm, sexy. He wants to dance with someone. He wants to have sex with someone. Drinking turns him into a bit of a slag. Well. A bit _more_ of a slag. He can’t be blamed. It’s the night before Hogwarts and it’s a nightmare to pull there, where everyone knows your business. 

Harry dances with a brunette girl with a gigantic Slytherin tattoo and a boy who looks suspiciously like someone who Louis had knocked off his broom once a few years back and a few people he honestly couldn’t remember if asked. The air is thick and hot and Harry’s a little sweaty, pushing his mass of hair out of his eyes when someone catches his eye across the room. Someone is tall, with big quiffy hair, and looking way suaver than he should considering he has about six umbrellas in his brightly coloured drink. He’s looking at Harry. Harry likes it when people look at him. Harry doesn’t like to wait, though, much, so pretty much immediately Harry is weaving through the crowd. 

“Hi,” Harry says, when he finally gets there. He wants to say something sexier, more mysterious, but the man’s eyes are really nice up close. 

“Hi,” says the man, looking amused. He has a nice voice. The man’s friends are laughing at him, Harry’s pretty sure. 

“I like your umbrellas,” says Harry, twisting his mouth into something more flirty.

“I like my alcohol to be location-appropriate,” says the man, with a big grin. “London-y. Filled with rain and regret.” He’s weird. Harry likes that. 

“Can I have one?” 

The man hands one over, and Harry tucks it behind his ear. “Good?” he asks, looking up into the man’s face for approval. The man reaches out and tucks it more securely amongst his curls. His hand is big, long fingered and deft and the touch makes Harry light up like a _lumos_. Harry feels very good about every decision he has ever made. 

“Lovely,” the man pronounces, pulling his hand away a beat too late. “I’m Nick.” 

“Harry,” says Harry. Harry grins up at him and Nick grins down at him and it gets weirdly intimate weirdly fast, like Harry’s known Nick for years and years and years. They probably would have gone on grinning at each other like loons had Nick’s friend not leaned over and poked Nick in the side. “Jailbait, Grimshaw,” she says, but she’s laughing. Harry blushes. He can’t help it. Nick is really fit. 

“Sod off, you,” says Nick, yanking his gaze away from Harry with almost physical effort, and shoves his friend. She rolls her eyes and walks off, leaving the two of them alone. Well, club alone. That’s like alone, but with more humans.

“So, Harry.” Nick tastes his name like it’s caramel, rolling it through his mouth. “What brings you to this sordid slaphole?” 

“Mate’s birthday,” says Harry, half-lying, “Is it really called the Horny Hippogriff?” 

“I _know_ ,” says Nick, eyes going wide. He has this voice that sounds like it’s teetering on the edge of a laugh, in a nice way. Harry really likes it. “Not something you really want to be thinking on of a night out, right? I did Care of Magical Creatures, I know what those things do in heat.” 

“Me too. Care of Magical Creatures, I mean.” Harry winces at himself and laughs, feeling sort of off kilter. He’s not that smooth but he’s usually smoother than this. “We had to see them breed once. Had nightmares about those sounds for months.” 

“Like very sexual carhorns, they are. A regular symphony of murderous copulating angels,” says Nick dreamily.  

“A chorus of hexed rhinos,” agrees Harry. 

“A carolling club consisting purely of trolls with laryngitis.” 

“A band made up of merpeople out of water.” 

“I think I’ve seen that band, actually. They play in Shoreditch.” 

Harry’s response is cut off by a sharp pain in his thigh. “Ow,” he says, and retrieves the culprit from his pocket. The tiny dragon shot glass blows smoke out of his nostrils, grumpily.

Nick laughs,  sudden and pleased. “What,” he says, “is that.” 

“Hubert,” says Harry, showing Nick, “He’s a shot glass.” 

Nick looks at him for a long minute, grinning big and delighted like he had found a pot of leprechaun gold that hadn’t disappeared at the end of the night. “You’re a good’un, Harry. And Hubert. Hi, Hubert.” Nick strokes Hubert with a long, careful finger.

Harry is pretty sure he had intended to flirt with Nick better than this, but whatever he’s doing seems to be working. Hubert snorts and rubs his snout against Nick’s nail, doing whatever dragons do instead of purring. _Me too, Hubert_ , thinks Harry. _Me too_.

—

Some amount of stupid jokes and countless umbrellas later, Harry and Nick are spilling into the loo of the Horny Hippogriff, giggling, pulling the door of a stall shut whilst Harry tries to remember a good locking spell that won’t backfire. It’s still weird and exciting to be able to do magic in not-Scotland. 

“Here, let me,” says Nick, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder and sliding his hand down Harry’s wand arm. He plucks the wood from Harry’s fingers and waves it. A glimmering purple loop eases the door shut, winds around the lock and then disappears. Harry blinks. It’s normally weird when other people use his wand, and it doesn’t work that well, usually, but that felt good. Easy.

“My wand likes you,” he says. 

“I know,” says Nick, smirking. He tucks Harry’s wand back in his trousers and presses the heal of his palm against his crotch. Harry is hard, and Nick’s got his arse flush against Nick’s front so Harry can feel that Nick is too. He hitches a breath. 

“Ha,” he says, weakly, not sure if he wants to press back or forwards, and doing an aborted combination of both, “Penis jokes.” 

“Penis jokes,” agrees Nick genially, breath hot in Harry’s ear. He unzips Harry’s jeans and wraps long fingers around his dick. Harry melts, his head knocking into Nick’s collarbone. “C’mere, Harry. Let’s do penis jokes together.” 

Harry turns around in Nick’s grip and launches himself at him, tugging at Nick’s hair and licking hotly into his mouth. He twines his limbs around Nick’s with a tight hold like the Giant Squid, like he can’t get enough of Nick, like he can’t get enough of this. It doesn’t feel like a first kiss, it’s too good and has just the right amount of biting and Harry’s making all these choked, needy sounds he can’t control. Harry thinks vaguely they should probably do a silencing charm. Nick doesn’t seem to mind, though, kissing him back hard enough to make him tremble, both hands sliding underneath Harry’s pants to grip the flesh of his arse. 

“God,” he pants, helplessly, “God, Nick.” 

“Yeah,” says Nick, choked, “Yeah, c’mon.” 

“What do you,” asks Harry in between kisses, “What do you want to do, I —” Nick sucks a bruise low in his collarbone. Harry had forgotten he’d worn such a low cut shirt and thanks every deity he has ever considered worshipping that he had. “Oh, fuck, Nick.” Nick has really good teeth, is the thing, and Harry really, really likes biting. They buck up against each other, the rough material of Nick’s jeans rubbing harsh against Harry’s dick. Harry bites his lip hard, digging his nails into the back of Nick’s neck. “I wanna blow you.” 

Nick makes a strangled sound against Harry’s chest. “Fuck, yeah, alright, yeah,” he says, returning to bite at Harry’s mouth. 

Harry sinks to his knees and looks up at Nick, who looks a bit as if he’s been on the receiving end of a stunning spell in the last two hours. Harry runs his mouth over the bulge in Nick’s jeans, letting the red of his lips drag against the rough, just to see him make that face again. 

“ _Je_ sus,” says Nick, knocking his head against the wall. 

Harry smiles, and unzips Nick’s trousers. He doesn’t tease — they’re in the loo, and they don’t have a silencing charm up and Harry doesn’t know Nick well enough to know how good his locking spells are — but takes him in his mouth right away, getting a feel for the heft and the salt of him, how Nick will twitch if Harry slides his tongue this way or that. Harry knows he’s good at this. There’s not a lot to do in boarding school, sometimes. Even a magical boarding school. 

“Good, that’s good,” says Nick, breathless. He’s a talker. Harry likes talkers. “You’ve got such a mouth, fuck, Merlin’s balls.” 

Harry pulls off with a pop and a cheeky smile. “Sounds a bit old and hairy,” he says, grinning, “but if you’re into that I could do a glamour…” 

Nick groans again. “Oh my god, shut up and keep doing that,” he whines, moving his hand to Harry’s hair and tugging. Harry’s eyes slide shut, and he makes a low hum of approval. Harry sucks Nick into his mouth again, twisting his wrist and taking him deep. Nick seems to have gotten the memo and is pulling at his hair a little bit, still talking, low and encouraging. Harry’s really hard, palming himself and making too much noise when he feels Nick start to pulse, the orgasm building. Nick tugs at his hair to warn him but Harry stays where he is, determined, and when Nick comes Harry takes it all, swallowing and lapping at him through the aftershocks. 

Harry sits back on his heels when he’s done, swiping a thumb underneath his lip and sucking off the remnants. 

“Merlin,” says Nick, with feeling, looking down at him. Harry grins. “Get up here, you, c’mon.” Nick pulls Harry up to his feet and kisses him, tastes himself on Harry’s tongue. “Fuck, the things I’d do to you if we had the time,” he says, with a predatory look in his eye that goes straight to Harry’s dick. Nick knocks him against the wall, nipping at Harry’s swollen lip. He grips Harry’s cock with a sure hand.

“What things?” Harry asks, breathy, unable to resist. Harry can feel Nick smile even though he can’t see it. He’s not sure how he knows Nick well enough already to know that about him, but he’s positive that he’s smiling. 

“I know lots of spells, young Harold,” says Nick, low, in his ear, “I got very, very good NEWTs.” Nick rubs his thumb over the head of Harry’s cock and Harry squeaks. It’s not exactly dignified, but now is not the time to care. “And I like to use that knowledge.” 

“You wanna fuck me?” pants Harry, resting his sweaty forehead against Nick’s shoulder. Nick’s still wearing all his clothes, which seems unfair. Harry is too, but the point stands.

Nick bites Harry’s earlobe. “Yeah, babe, I wanna fuck you,” he says, his voice a rumbly whisper that makes Harry tingle all over, “I wanna take my time, though, make you wait. Make you beg for it. Tie you up and give you my fingers for hours until you’re stretched and sweaty and desperate for my cock.” 

Harry moans, low. Nick’s voice is so good and his hand moves slow and steady over him, coaxing the orgasm from his belly. “You like that, hmm? Me too. You’d look so good on my bed, pleading. ‘Please fuck me, Nick. _Please_.’ So demanding.” Nick bites Harry’s neck, licks over the mark. Harry is shaking now, breathing shallow and rapid. He’s so close. 

“And then?” asks Harry, barely getting the words out. 

“And then, I’d slick myself up and give it to you. Drive my cock into your arse. It’d be slow, you’d still be so tight, but so ready for it.”

“Hard?” asks Harry, trembling, the wave building, the crest of his orgasm within his grasp. 

“Yeah,” says Nick, capturing Harry’s mouth in a bruising kiss between words. Nick’s free hand tilts Harry’s head to a better angle. Nick is pretty much holding him up at this point. Harry feels so good it’s like his intestines are melting. He wants Nick to jack him off forever. “Yeah, yeah Harry. I’d fuck you as hard as you want. And you’d love it, wouldn’t you, you’d fucking love it. You’d take it so well, I know you would, you’re so good.” 

That’s it for Harry and he comes all over both their clothes with a choked cry, Nick stroking him calmly through it. Harry breathes hard for a moment, closing his eyes against Nick’s neck. “That rhymed,” he said, finally.

Nick laughs, pulling away. Harry’s gratified to see that Nick also seems slightly overwhelmed. If Nick feels anything like Harry, his bones are more jellyleg jinx than, like, bone material. 

Nick takes over the straightening up process, deft with the cleaning spells and buttoning Harry’s trousers for him. He takes the spell off the door and guides him in front of the mirror (blessedly silent, for once) where he fixes Harry’s hair with gentle fingers. Harry can’t do much but blink contentedly. Nick runs his thumbs over Harry’s cheekbones when he’s done, his face that strange mixture of helpless fondness and bemused surprise that had haunted it all night. 

“Well,” says Nick. They look at each other for a minute and then crack up, dissolving into  giggles. 

“Well,” agrees Harry, when he’s recovered enough to form words, “Um, I actually should get back to my mates. But. You’re great.” 

“You too, Harold. Harry… Sorry, What’s your last name?” 

“Styles.” 

“Styles,” repeats Nick, running the name through his mouth. “Harry Styles. Well, that was lovely, Harry Styles.” 

“Do you live in London?” 

“Used to. ‘Fraid not now, though. I’m just in town for a bit, headed to a new job up north soon.” 

“Oh,” says Harry, feeling sort of disappointed even though he’s not going to be in London tomorrow, or for months, actually, so it doesn’t matter. “Well. You should look me up, if you’re in town again.” 

“Will do, Harry Styles. You have a lovely night.” Nick’s grin is crooked. “Say bye to Hubert for me.” 

Harry had forgotten about Hubert. He checks his pocket and, yes, the shot glass is still there. He beams at Nick, reaching up a little to kiss him again. Nick looks a little dazed when he pulled back. Harry likes that. It makes him feel better, more on kilter. “Bye,” he says, finally, close to Nick’s face. Nick manages a smile and Harry darts out of the loo before he does something dumb like ask where Nick’s staying tonight because if Harry doesn’t make it to Gemma’s she will probably flay him and feed his remnants to dragons. 

Well, not really. But it would be a close call, and he would not be surprised if it happened.

—

They’re all hungover on the Hogwarts Express the next day. Harry spends most of the trip asleep on various shoulders and at the end Harry forgets his robes _and_ his cat on the train and Zayn waits for him, sneaking a cigarette whilst the rest of the carriages roll on to the castle. Once he’s finally situated — or, really, as situated as Harry ever can be — Harry plans on charming Hagrid into taking them up late. Hagrid loves Harry. Harry likes to visit him and coo over his pictures of deadly animals. Harry is looking forward to showing Hagrid Hubert. 

“So where’d you get off too last night?” Zayn exhales smoke away from Harry but it still manages to get into his face. “You missed a massive one. Louis set off like fifteen fireworks and Li had to talk a Hitwitch out of taking him into custody.” 

Harry tries and fails to keep from looking spectacularly smug. 

Zayn gives him an eloquent look that says ' _oh_ I _see_ ' and also 'you slag' and also 'you adorable scamp I’ve always admired and loved you best of all our housemates'. It’s all in the shoulders. 

Harry shrugs, faux-bashfully. 

Hagrid takes them to the castle like Harry knew he would. Hagrid thinks Hubert is fantastic and they talk about dragons for a while until he leaves Harry and Zayn outside the doors to the Great Hall with identical bruising thumps to the back. 

“So who was it, then? You slag.” Zayn bumps him in the shoulder. Harry bumps him right back, and they have a brief scuffle that results in Harry’s tie getting completely mussed and Zayn frantically trying to fix his hair before they go in.  

“You know that bloke I was talking with? The one with the—” Harry makes the universal sign for quiff. Zayn shakes his head, and also looks offended, fixing his. “Oh, yeah, well. He was cool, like.” 

“Cool, like,” parrots Zayn, as if he were the king of loquacious commentary, ushering him into the Great Hall. It’s noisy, the buzz of reunion in the air and Harry feels really, really good, really happy. He didn’t think he’d be excited to be back but he is. The night sky looms above them, thick with stars. It’s all so sweet and familiar that he has to headbutt Zayn really hard to let his feelings out. Harry has a lot of feelings. He always has had.

“Shut up. He _was_ , okay. Really, really fit, and funny, and tall, and he did this thing with his tongue and he — holy _fuck_.” Oh fuck. Oh, _shit_. 

Harry nearly falls over. No, no, he does fall over. He falls over and catches himself on a Hufflepuff he vaguely knows and whilst trying to apologise to him he falls over again. Harry feels like a swarm of doxies is breeding in his stomach. He feels like he is about to give birth to a Hippogriff. He feels like a thestral will shortly emerge from his nostrils. He feels like he maybe shouldn’t have taken Care of Magical Creatures for NEWTs. 

It doesn’t matter. There is literally no magical creature simile that will suffice because there, at Hogwarts’s long oak staff table,  gesticulating dramatically with a forkful of chicken, is Mega Fit Nick From The Club. Who is is now his professor, presumably. 

Holy shit.

Harry can see the exact moment that Nick notices him because his giant beaming grin goes out like a deluminator and he looks like Harry feels. Like there is a stampede of Hungarian Horntails in his large intestine. Like there is an augury hatching in his chest cavity. Nick’s eyes are cartoonishly wide and Harry is both pleased and troubled to note that he continues to be very, very fit in that charming offbeat way that Harry can never get enough of. The whole of Hogwarts seems to fade into the background for a minute as they stare at each other like idiots and a whole generation of rowdy flobberworms throw a leavers eve ball in Harry’s gut. They’re probably Gryffindor flobberworms. They’re energetic enough.

“Oi. Earth to wanker!” Zayn smacks him on the head. Even through all the hair, it hurts. Zayn is an arsehole. Harry tears his gaze away from Nick’s and forces himself to look slightly less like a complete idiot. Zayn seems not to care what has gotten Harry to lose his shit, though, and he just gestures towards the Gryffindor table. “C’mon, let’s get seated, I’m bloody starved.” 

Zayn leads him through the Hall. Harry trails like a lost duckling, minimally aware of his surroundings and probably picking up bruises from all of the shit he keeps bumping into.  He keeps looking over his shoulder at the Staff Table. After those few moments of shock, it appears like Mega Fit Nick is simultaneously laughing and crying. His hands are over his face, so it’s a bit difficult to tell, but his shoulders are shaking pretty hard. Professor Longbottom is prodding him in the shoulder. Nick bats him off, shaking his head. With his hand removed it’s easier to tell that he is laughing, although it is rather a desperate kind of laugh, hysterical with horrified eyes, not one that looks particularly fun. Still, it’s infectious and even across the hall it makes Harry want to laugh too. Nick looks like he’s saying ‘of fucking course’, or, possibly, ‘a mucking horse.’ Harry’s watching Nick so attentively that he doesn’t notice they’ve reached their destination. He bumps headlong into Zayn and nearly falls into the lap of a third-year called Annie. She looks thrilled. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, trying to catch his balance again and failing, knocking over Annie’s pumpkin juice. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“Harold,” drawls Louis, “Late _and_ destructive, what _are_ we going to do with you?” Louis is sat at the best spot at the centre of the table like he knows he’s king of Gryffindor now and is celebrating his ascent to the crown. There are at least fourteen lower years who seem simultaneously terrified and in awe of him. Harry is familiar with the feeling. 

Harry still feels off kilter but he does his best charming smile as he squeezes in next to Zayn. “Love me,” he says, promptly. They all chorus into exaggerated awwws, and Niall throws a Cornish pasty at his head. Harry doesn’t duck well if only because he’s busy craning said head to look at the staff table again, where Mega Fit Nick from the Club continues to wear staff robes and have a mental breakdown, looks like. 

“You all right, Haz?” asks Liam kindly, adjusting his Prefect badge. Harry flinches and turns away from Mega Fit Nick from the Club Who Is Now His Professor, Apparently (Holy Shit). Liam’s kind eyebrows are doing their kind eyebrow thing. Harry is pretty sure kind eyebrows are the number one reason for Liam’s Prefecture, along with how any of the rest of them would be rubbish. Liam says he’s relieved not to be Head Boy but they all think he’s secretly a bit put out. 

“Yeah, fine, just uh, new term! Last year! Ride with the hippogriffs, swim with the Giant Squid and all that, y’know,” rambles Harry with a manic kind of laugh. He starts shovelling food into his mouth just to prevent more things from coming out of it. Things like, _oh hey, so, I shagged that mega fit professor last night_. Things like, _oh, hey, I really want to shag him again_. Oh, god — "A new job up north." Harry had thought he meant Manchester. 

It is a mark of their friendship that Liam just nods wisely, unfazed by this nonsense. A mark of _what_ Harry is unsure, but it is definitely some kind of mark. 

“And getting off to a grand start it is, too,” says Louis with a very evil sort of smirk. That is Louis’s only kind of smirk. Zayn snickers, equally nasty. 

“Oh no, what did you do?” moans Liam, doing his best to look concerned. He is a terrible actor. He just looks elated. This is why he is not Head Boy. 

“Let’s just say that Slytherin is in for a treat this evening.” Louis rubs his hands together and actually cackles. 

“We’re turning their entranceway into a swamp,” says Zayn in the bored voice he uses when he is actually not bored at all. “With mosquitos.” 

“Gonna smell like arse,” adds Niall, cheerfully, “Wankers.” 

“Oh _no_ ,” says Liam tragically, “This is terrible. I should go and warn their Prefects.” He doesn’t move. He’s clearly thrilled. “Will there be swamp animals? I think alligators would be ideal.” 

“Lou, I thought you were gonna tone back the house rivalry thing?” asks Harry through a mouthful of pie, “Remember how you agreed that it was an artificial conflict that only caused more problems? And also how _you_ were almost a Slytherin? And also how most of them are your mates? And how we had 83 combined detentions last term?” 

Louis shrugs. “I got bored. Pacifism is for the weak. Petty rivalry is for winners.” 

Well, Harry tried. He turns his attention back to trying to sneakily look around the heads of his housemates for glimpses of Mega Fit Nick From The Club Who Is Now His Professor, Apparently (Holy Shit). Harry’s very sneaky. He could go pro at stealth. He would have made a great Slytherin, probably. 

“Haz why’s it look like you’ve swallowed a neck twisting twirlie?” Niall pokes him in the side with a bread roll. 

Harry glares at Niall. Maybe he’s not that stealth, but he is aces at glaring. He’d win glaring House Cup. 

Niall laughs. “Don’t pout, you big baby, I was just asking.” 

Well, whatever. At least Harry’s pretty. He’s very, very pretty. He does his best charming smile and, appeased, Niall turns back to his meal. 

Zayn and Louis are still plotting (Liam vacillating between anguished pleas and sensible advice about which charms are most durable to use for the water), so Harry takes advantage of the distraction to talk to Niall.

“So who’s the new bloke? Next to Fincham?” he asks, trying for studied nonchalance. He sounds like a third-year whose voice is changing. 

Niall shrugs, looking over. “New Defence prof,” he says through a mouthful of corned beef, “Grim somethin. Awkward name for that, innit? Foreboding.” 

“Shaw,” answers Harry, miserably. “Grim _shaw_.” 

“Yeah, that’s it. Seems a bit weird. Dunno. Anyway, you coming for Swamp Do? Should be a laugh.” 

Harry does not want to come to Swamp Do. Harry doesn’t like house rivalry and his sister was a Slytherin and he likes most of them anyway. Harry wants to hide under his bed, or call his mum, or write in to Witch Weekly’s advice columnist 'what do you do when you’ve shagged your new Defence professor and also you’re a bit rubbish at Defence and really need a passing mark and also you still think he’s fit and also really nice and funny?'. Harry also knows he does not have a choice in this. 

“Yeah,” he says, still looking at Nick, who is still having a breakdown, “Yeah, alright.” 


	2. Harry Styles and the Very Sad Shield Charm

If Harry wakes up early the next day and showers the swamp smell off himself and puts sleeking potion in his curls and tries on three pairs of identical uniform trousers to see which best accentuates his arse then that is his own bloody business and the lads can just sod right off.

“Who’re you trying to impress, Hazza?” asks Louis, laughing as he and Liam perform their traditional morning recreational Zayn wakeup. Louis appears to be trying out new cosmetics charms. “Finally giving in to your pangs of tormented three-dimensional love for our beauteous painted lady guardian?” 

Harry flinches from where he’s stood trying to get his button-down to gape enough to show his collarbones without being obvious enough to get him a point loss. He recovers quickly. One does not room with Louis Tomlinson for six years and learn nothing. “Obviously,” says Harry, returning to the task at hand, “I’ve come to my senses. It’s oil-painted opera fans or nothing.” 

“Well, she does guard our hole,” says Niall, then cracks up laughing so hard he falls off the bed. 

“Make his nose more bulbous, there, Lou,” says Liam, leaning over Zayn critically. In about five minutes Zayn will wake up and hex everyone in eyesight with gigantic turquoise boils. Harry makes sure to be in the bathroom for it. 

They go down to breakfast, Zayn prodding his fixed nose sulkily and Louis proudly wearing half a face of cerulean spots. He tells a knot of admiring fourth-years that he got them duelling Slytherins. 

After stuffing themselves with eggs and toast they pull out their schedules. In their first five years they’d had all the same courses, having picked the same electives in third year — Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies — but after careers meetings they’d come to the sad realisation that this unity could not continue into NEWT years. Harry still sometimes feels a little separation anxiety about it. 

“I’ve got Muggle Studies first,” says Niall, “Then block DADA.” 

Harry laughs maniacally, pointedly not looking at the staff table. Nick is wearing green. It looks good. “Me too.” Niall gives him a weird look. 

“I have a free, then DADA,” says Louis, poking his schedule. He looks at Zayn, narrowing his eyes pensively. “You?” 

“Same,” Zayn says, grinning like a tooth potion advert. Harry can hear a group of fifth-years sigh longingly at the perfect cut of Zayn’s jawline. He stifles a laugh. 

“You want to fix up Swampland?” asks Louis. It’s rhetorical. Most questions from Louis are. 

“Course,” says Zayn, buttering some toast for later. 

“I have Herbology,” says Liam sadly. He’s doing the Auror Special — Transfig, DADA, Potions, Herbology, Charms — and he has to study a lot, so he rarely has a free section. 

“Poor Liam,” says Louis generously, petting Liam’s head. “We’ll show you before Quidditch.” 

“Who _knows_ what you’ll get up to without me there to stop you,” says Liam with tragic, long-suffering eyebrows, “You could put in meteorology charms. You could make it misty all _week_.” 

“What’s the spell for that?” asks Louis, pulling a quill out of his bag. 

“And the wetland plants,” continues Liam, puppy-eyed, “Professor Longbottom doesn’t even _lock_ Greenhouse Seventeen. I can’t even imagine.” 

“Seventeen, you say,” repeats Louis, writing on his forearm. “How careless of him.” 

Niall and Harry leave them to it and make their way out to the school grounds. 

—

Harry is unusually clumsy throughout Care of Magical Creatures, even for him. He spills doxy feed all over himself and Hagrid makes sympathetic sounds and pats him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Harry. They also eat raw meat.” 

Niall looks alarmed at the revelation, his hand stilling in the cage. Harry is too wired to look anything but caffeinated. Eleanor Calder, a Slytherin, pokes him in the arm. 

“Hey, it was you lot that did the swamp, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” says Harry, looking at his watch. 

“Tell Lou he’s a dick. And that he did a shitty job with the mosquitos, they don’t even itch. Pathetic.” 

“‘Kay,” says Harry, still looking at his watch. Five minutes and then they’re out. Fifteen minutes until Defence. It takes eight minutes to walk to the castle and five minutes to get to the classroom, which leaves two minutes for Harry to fix his hair and get the doxy smell out of his uniform. It’s definitely not enough time. 

“And you lot better watch out because you’re next,” continues Eleanor calmly. Normally, Harry is a bit afraid of her when she uses that voice, but right now he’s very busy thinking about his hair. 

“Uh-huh,” he says, edging towards the path to the castle. Three minutes until they’re out. Eight minutes to the castle. Running is probably his safest bet.

“And he’s not allowed to say anything about us being the villain house, alright, because _you all_ started it this year.” 

“Yup,” says Harry agreeably.  Running is good unless he trips, and in which case it’d be more like fifteen minutes. So maybe power walking. A light gallop. 

Eleanor walks off to gather her things. Niall pops up at Harry’s side, shaking Doxy eggs out of his hair. “What was El talking to you about?” he asks, a little concerned. Niall knows about Eleanor’s prowess in charms. He is right to be worried. 

“Turnips,” says Harry, before taking off towards the castle in a gallop. 

—

It takes Harry seven minutes to get to the castle because he ends up waiting for Niall halfway up the path and eight minutes to get to the classroom because they run into the Gryffindor seventh girls at the steps and Perrie wants to know how class was. 

Harry doesn’t have enough time to do much besides shake his hair out before he’s forced into the classroom by the mass of humanity at his back. The doxies from class have definitely moved house into his oesophagus and are throwing a rollicking housewarming. Harry’s breakfast is threatening to reemerge all over the stone floor.  He stares at the empty desk by the chalkboard for a good twenty seconds. 

“Harry. Haz. Harry. Harry. _Harry_.” Harry shakes his head a little to wake himself up. Zayn is calling him from across the room, looking increasingly exasperated. 

“C’mon, budge up,” says Liam, dragging Harry bodily to his seat between the two of them. “What is with you today? Are you poorly? Do you need the hospital wing? I could take you if you like, I know it’s first lesson but you really aren’t looking well.” Liam feels Harry’s forehead. “You’re quite warm. He’s quite warm, isn’t he, Zayn?”

Zayn shrugs, reaching over to feel Harry’s forehead himself. “Dunno, maybe.” 

“I’m fine,” says Harry faintly. Nick isn’t in the room yet. It is a matter of time. His fate is looming, like a giant… loom. Web of fate. Something. He squirms in his seat. Liam feels his forehead again, then turns around to talk to Niall and Louis behind them. 

“Lads, feel Hazza’s forehead. Does he seem warm to you?” Liam turns Harry about by the shoulders and he’s about to be subjected to all-round Gryffindor mothering when the door at the front of the classroom clatters open and Nick emerges, carrying a pile of what looks like old armour and apologising loudly. 

Harry nearly falls off the chair. 

“Do you feel faint?” whispers Liam, patting him down, “Do you need some water? A banana? I think Jade has one, I could ask.” 

“Shhh,” says Harry, covering Liam’s mouth with his hand. Liam licks it. Harry blames Louis. 

Nick sets the armour on his desk and turns to face the class. His eyes roam over the classroom and light on Harry for a split second before he winces almost imperceptibly and moves on. 

“Hi, slightly more youthful humans. I’m Ni— er, yeah, Professor Grimshaw.” He makes a face like he’s revolted with himself, and then laughs. “Sorry, getting used to that one. I’m not the authority, usually. Very weird being at the front of the class. Normally I was at the back, y’know, lobbing things at everybody else. Oh, probably shouldn’t say that to you people. You’ll have ideas. Forget all that, very young humans. Very, very young. Infantile. Prepubescent. Larval.” Nick coughs, looking fixedly at the row of desks Harry is not in. “Anyway. Hello, I’m Nick Grimshaw and I’ll be your cursed professor this year.” 

“Not cursed anymore,” mumbles Niall vaguely, arranging the curls at the back of Harry’s head.

“How old are you?” asks Louis, voice piercing from the back of the room. Harry knows without looking that Louis has his feet up on the table. 

“Twenty-six,” says Nick. He looks at Louis, who is behind Harry, so it’s probably taking a lot of effort to be _that_ not-noticing of him. “You know, adult-sized. Proper. Adult. Sized.” He clears his throat. “I was a Hitwizard up until this year, so if any of you are interested in that I am your questionably credentialed man. Was in Auror training too, before that, know there are probably some Gryffindors well up for that road but trust me, Auroring is rubbish, loads of sitting around in dark rooms staring at bits of parchment these days, unless we’re at war of course, not that you would remember that because you’re all oversized infants with magical bits of trees you wave about. 

“Anyway, bangs and smells and dashing saves that end you up in hospital beds are Hitwizardry these days, I’d advise that if you’re interested in stupid heroics. Or smart heroics, might be a nice change, really. Any and all Ravenclaws are more than welcome to do training. No one likes a Gryffindor in a stakeout.” 

Niall is laughing hysterically behind Harry. He’s not the only one. Nick is charming, even flustered and rambly like this. Or, maybe, especially. Harry can’t stop looking at how he twists his quiff up compulsively with one hand — hands that just a day before had been covered in Harry’s come. Harry wonders what he looks like naked. It’s so unfair he hasn’t seen yet. 

Zayn pokes him in the side with savage fingers. “Owww,” whines Harry, turning to Zayn with his most tragic of sad eyes. 

“Page 18, you twat,” says Zayn , rolling his eyes fondly, “I’ve been trying to tell you for like ten minutes.”

Oh, right. Class. Nick is saying something about shield charms and motioning to the pile of armour. “What’s going on?” he hisses to Zayn frantically, paging through his textbook. 

“Shield charms,” Zayn whispers, so close to Harry’s ear that he almost licks it, “Apparently if you do ‘em right they can rebound your curse enough to crack armour.” 

Harry is shit at anything that involves the word “rebound”, but he nods like he’s fine and tries to listen to Nick’s instructions and not think about him naked. And not think about that voice whispering dirty things into his ear. It’s such a valiant struggle that someone should write a seven volume epic about it, probably. 

Harry pays enough attention to notice that Nick is a good teacher, attentive and, for all his rambling, a great listener. He patiently guides Jesy and Leigh-Anne through a demonstration, crowing in delight when Jesy gets it right at the end and crumbles Leigh-Anne’s iron chestplate with Leigh-Anne’s own disintegration hex. 

Nick vanishes the scrap metal and motions for the girls to return to their seats. “Right, so you can see how if Leigh-Anne wasn’t wearing her fine, fine medieval accessories she’d be a bit worse for wear right now, probably all intestiney and gross, not that I’d know from experience or anything. Anyway!” Nick motions to the pile of junk metal behind him. “Pair up and have at, everyone. Try not to die. That’d look terrible on a CV. Nick Grimshaw: got a student all intestiney and gross on his very first day. Classic.” Nick cackles to himself maniacally and then outfits a pair of Hufflepuffs for battle. 

Harry swings round to look at his mates. Louis is clinging to Niall and Zayn has somehow got round him to stand steadfastly by Liam. 

“Sorry, Haz,” says Niall, not sounding even slightly sorry. “We’ve all done this sort of thing with you before and we all have the scars to prove it.”

“No you don’t,” Harry almost wails, “Pomfrey is really good with the skin salve.” 

“We all _could_ have had the scars to prove it,” says Zayn, unmoved.

Harry makes his eyes wide and sad, looking at them all in turn like they personally hexed his cat and then stole all his favourite sweets to eat in front of him. Louis’s eyes go all soft and liquidy. He looks like he’s going to volunteer but Niall pinches him savagely and his face goes back to normal. 

“Liam?” asks Harry pitiably, turning to the Prefect. Liam is a softy. Surely he’ll save him from his fate of seeming like the biggest loser imaginable in front of a professor he recently shagged. “You won’t leave me alone, will you?” 

“Sorry, Haz.” Liam looks very sad, but also very resigned. Harry blames Louis. Five years ago that would have worked. 

Harry wants to cry slightly. He really wanted his first conversation with Mega Fit Nick From The Club Who Is Now His Professor, Apparently (Holy Shit) to be under better circumstances than Harry being partnerless and then being pants at shield charms. He had pictured something a bit suaver than that. He hangs back whilst everyone outfits themselves in clunky armour and spreads out around the big room. Nick is sorting breastplates at his desk. He’s not wearing robes and his trousers are tight. Harry ogles his arse for a bit, shamelessly, to make himself feel better. It works. 

Everyone is busy making things explode when Harry walks up to the desk, approaching wide and obvious like he’d do a horse, or a hippogriff. 

“Hey,” he says, forcing his hands into his jumper sleeves and trying not to project bricking it, even though he’s totally bloody bricking it. 

Nick darts a look at him out the corner of his eye, like he’s an apparition that is about to vanish, then grins despite himself, shaking his head at the desk. “Lord help me,” he groans softly, running a hand over his face. He looks around the classroom. Everyone is practising, not paying attention to the drama unfolding quietly by Nick’s desk. “Hello, Harry told-me-you-were-of-age Styles.” 

“I _am_ of age,” says Harry honestly. 

“Yeah, y’know.” Nick flaps his hand at him. “Out of school, age. Proper age. Not gonna get me sacked age.” 

“I’m not going to get you sacked,” says Harry, feeling a bit gutted that he’d suggest it. That must show on his face because Nick turns to look at him, sympathetic. 

“Sorry, Harry. Okay, you’re not going to get me sacked. That’s a good start.” 

Nick looks at a loss. Harry agrees. He shoves his hands in his pockets, past his wand, and concentrates on not thinking about sex even a little bit. Nick fiddles with his quiff again. He’s almost laughing with despair. Nick seems like he’s probably always laughing. “Can’t say they put this situation in the new professor manual. I do not feel old enough for this. I do not feel _young_ enough for this. I just.” Nick flaps his hands again, all around himself. “This. Well.” 

Harry nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I agree.” 

“Christ. You’re a child. And here I was thinking, what a shame, best look that boy up in a few months because when does it happen that someone who looks like…” Nick gestures at him. Harry looks down at his doxy feed-splattered uniform and pigeon toed feet. “Like _that_ , all whilst being so funny and sweet, and you had that dumb little shot glass and it was horrifically charming. So. Of course, of course you’d be my student.” 

Nick’s hands go to his face again. “My _student_ , agh, I’m a _professor_ , how did that happen, what has become of my life. I used to be cool. I used to have a life, and dreams and hopes and… things. What am I even doing with myself? I’m not fooling anyone, I am nowhere near responsible enough for this. I should just resign and save everyone the bother. My _student_. Hell.” 

Harry puts his hands out like Nick is his cat when it’s angry. “Nick?” asks Harry, using the steady voice he uses to calm riotous animals. 

“Yeah,” says Nick, muffled into his hands. 

“Nick, take a deep breath, okay?” 

Nick takes a deep breath.

“Okay, we’re gonna talk about this later, and right now, you’re gonna show me how to do the shield charm thing because I don’t have a partner. And it’s going to be great. Because you can do this. You were really great with Leigh-Anne and Jesy. I know you can do this.” 

“I called Jesy Jade by accident,” says Nick through his hands.

“That happens to all of us sometimes,” soothes Harry. He wonders if it’s too awkward to pat Nick on the arm. He does it anyway. It seems to help. Nick takes his hands away from his face and looks around the room, steadying his shoulders. 

“Right.” Nick shakes his head and visibly pulls himself together. “Right, illicit paramour, will you hold on a sec because I think that Gryffindor is about to break the castle.” Nick hurries towards Louis and Niall, which is probably smart, Harry thinks, because Louis breaks the castle all the time and Niall likes to watch. 

Harry uses the moment to get his wand out — ha, _wand_ — and try to remember how to do shield charms without being rubbish. 

Nick comes back looking slightly less hysterical. “Alright, Harry, let’s just proceed on like this is entirely, entirely normal.” He tugs a breastplate up. “You want me to go first, or you?” 

“You,” says Harry, “To be honest, I’m not the strongest in Defence, so.” 

“That’s fine,” says Nick, easing the armour over Harry’s head. He settles it gently over Harry’s shoulders. His face is very close to Harry’s now. It looks good in the daylight. He has a lot of eyelash, and freckles all over his forehead and cheeks. They’re really endearing. 

Abruptly, Harry realises he’s been staring at Nick’s face for quite a while, and jolts back. Nick seems to realise it too, and he begins rambling on about shield theory for a minute, something about angles and visualisation. 

“Does that make sense?” asks Nick, after an involved analogy that seemed to involve Quidditch, merpeople and the city of Dublin. 

“Nope,” says Harry agreeably, “But let’s try it, and we’ll see.” 

Nick laughs, all throaty and full-chested. Harry really likes it. “Alright, Harold, throw a hex at me and keep your arms out the way.” 

Harry is not very good at hexes. He’s great at them on paper — he knows the words, and the movements, and could explain to someone else how it worked — but putting Harry in front of someone and asking him to hex them is a totally different story. He sends something stingy Nick’s way. Nick does something complicated with his wand, making the shield he just threw up glow bright. Harry feels the hex rebound onto him but it doesn’t shatter his breastplate the way the demonstration had done. The armour sort of makes a sad creaking sound. Harry looks down. It looks like a sad smily. 

“My armour is really sad at me,” he says, mournfully. He sort of wants to take a picture of it to show everyone later.

Nick is looking at Harry like Harry is Hubert the shotglass and Nick wants to put him in his pocket home. “That’s alright, Harold. You are rubbish at hexes which I should have suspected from that face. We’ll work on it. Did you see what I did with my wand?” 

Harry shrug-nods sheepishly. He had been looking more at Nick’s spellcasting face. It was pretty hot. “Yeah. No. Sort of?” He does a vague approximation of the swirvy thing Nick had done. 

“A bit more… Here, hold on,” says Nick, looking intently at Harry’s movement. The focused attention is turning Harry on a bit, if he’s honest. He’s having a lot of thoughts about Nick ordering him about but in a sex way. Nick reaches over and guides Harry through the motion gently, his touch sweet like when he’d tucked the umbrella into Harry’s hair. Harry wants to melt into it. He wants to lean forward and up and capture Nick’s mouth, feel the solid press of it against his, taste his mouth without vodka this time. 

“Like that,” says Nick hoarsely, after a minute. They stare at each other again. Harry’s heart is in his throat. So is a colony of puffskeins doing the disco, and possibly a manticore doing a tango alone. 

“Professor! Professor Grimshaw! I don’t think faces are supposed to be this colour!” 

For a second Harry can’t breathe but Nick is hurrying away and abruptly he realises that Liam wasn’t shouting about _Harry_ ’s face. He goes limp with relief until he realises that if Liam isn’t talking about him, he is talking about someone else, and someone else’s face. 

The whole class is crowded around and it takes some effort to be able to see to the centre, where his friends are sat on the ground around Niall. Niall’s face is neon orange and twice its normal width. Niall doesn’t seem particularly bothered. He keeps asking for compacts, trying to get a look at it and prodding his distended cheek. Nick gets Niall packed off to the hospital wing with Liam, whose Prefect badge is a dangerous lie of a ruse of a scam. 

“Cool class, then!” says Nick, clapping his hands together. “Good to know the curse is still cursing on. Glad I took a cursed position, ace life goals on my part. Anyway, well done, those of you who haven’t sustained terrifying looking injuries! I’ll see you… Hell if I know my schedule. I’ll see you whenever you turn up next.” 

Harry lingers behind, putting his things away slowly. It doesn’t take long for the room to clear. It’s lunch, and they’re all hungry from a long morning of getting hexed a lot. 

“Need help, Harold?” asks Nick wryly. 

Harry does his best charming dimple at him. “Yeah.” 

“Minx,” says Nick, smirking despite himself. “I’ve got twenty hormone-ridden third-years coming in here in a half hour. Go take your services elsewhere. And don’t forget your wand.” The corner of Nick’s mouth twitches at the word, helplessly. 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Harry hefting his satchel over his shoulder and cocking a hip out. It hasn’t changed, really. He still feels like he’s known Nick for years. He still feels like he wants to burrow into his skin, a bit. In a sex way, not a creepy way. Well, a little in a creepy way. Harry starts to leave, knowing that the lads will be looking for him and not sure that Nick wants him here. 

“Hey, wait,” says Nick, catching Harry’s arm. Harry stops short, heart pounding. “You’ve got, er. In your hair.” Nick plucks some doxy feed out of the strands, fingers brushing Harry’s temple softly. Harry closes his eyes, just for a minute. Nick smells like metal and smoke, from the hexes. Harry keeps his eyes shut but he feels Nick cup his cheek for a second and then step back. “Sorry, that was. Not very adulty of me.” Nick laughs, but it does not sound very happy. Harry opens his eyes again. 

“It’s okay,” says Harry, his voice coming out rough. 

“Not really okay, no, nope, not uh, not particularly.” Nick laughs again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, this should be fun. Lots and lots of fun times and also not at all, not even slight hints of fun, Harry Styles.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Harry uselessly. He feels a bit trod on. He wants a hug. 

Nick looks stricken. “No, no, no, not you, Harry, you’re great. I said that before, I meant it. You’re lovely, completely utterly lovely, it actually disturbs me how — anyway. This is not your fault. This is my fault. This one’s on me. I mean I can’t — we can’t — not whilst I’m your professor, you know?” 

Harry disagrees but Nick seems pretty sure of himself. “Okay,” he says, resigned for the moment. “I mean, I disagree, but if that’s what you want.” The smile he shoots Nick is not the smile of ‘if you want,’ but Harry is not an angel. He cannot be blamed for this. 

“Christ. Harry Styles.” Nick shakes his head, laughing more brightly this time. “Okay, you lovely child, run along and do studenty things please whilst I curse my elderly failings and mourn whatever hag I hexed to get me this fate. And I have to teach tiny pubescent nightmares in about twenty minutes and I’ve barely done any prep.” 

“Don’t strain anything,” says Harry, striving for cheek. 

Nick grins at him. “No promises. You young people, with your fresh bones and unbruised muscle. Go on, join the rest of them, unwrinkled monstrosities that you are.” 

Harry laughs and makes his way out of the room, narrowly avoiding running into the wall along the way. He would have thought he’d gotten away with it, but he can hear Nick’s laughter behind him. It carries out into the corridor, trilling over the walls. Harry’s kind of totally fucked. He might kind of like it, though, he’s not sure. 

Zayn and Louis are waiting for him at the end of the corridor, kicking a Quaffle back and forth and arguing about the rules of Muggle sport. 

“What kept you so long? Did you break something? Or someone? Someone _s_?” asks Louis, scooping up the Quaffle and leading them towards the Great Hall. 

“Yeah, something like that,” says Harry, tackling Louis to release some of his nervous energy. “C’mon, I’m hungry. Let’s race.” 

—

They careen through the halls and knock over enough people to lose Gryffindor 15 points but by the end Harry is sweaty and tired and feels less like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, so he counts it a win. 

They slide into their chosen seats. Niall is across from them, still orange but less so, shovelling steak and kidney pie into his mouth. 

“You ruined my work,” says Louis, wrinkling his nose. “You were perfect and you ruined it.” 

“Sorry,” says Niall cheerfully. 

“I thought Liam hexed you?” asks Harry, confused.

“Liam is my creation. He is my Frankenstein and I am his puppeteer.” Louis feeds Harry a bit of toast and pats his cheek. 

“Frankenstein’s monster,” says Zayn. “Frankenstein is the dude. Liam would be Frankenstein’s monster.” 

Louis shrugs. “Whatever. Basically, I bask in his victory and shun all his defeats because, seriously, those are never my fault.” 

“Good class, though,” says Liam earnestly. “Grimshaw’s good, isn’t he? Bit odd, dunno what he was going on about that cursed bit, but the shield thing was good form.” 

“He’s alright,” says Zayn, shrugging. From Zayn, that’s ringing praise. 

Harry knows Nick isn’t at the staff table for lunch but he looks anyway. All he sees is Headmistress McGonagall arguing about something with Professor Trelawney, and about four empty seats along the row. The disappointment makes him feel grumpy. He stabs a particularly annoying looking potato. 

“Where do you think the teachers eat, when they don’t eat in here?” he asks. 

Zayn and Louis stop their conversation about swamp dynamics to hit him about the head for no particular reason. Harry wishes he could say this is unusual. 

“Their rooms, mostly,” says Niall, once they’ve returned to plotting. “There’s a staff room too.” 

“Huh. How did I not know that?” Harry frowns at his pudding. 

“You’re kind of an eejit, mate,” says Niall kindly. He pats him on his shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at Niall, an eloquent response that is worthy of Ravenclaw, frankly. “I’m going to go on a valiant quest to find the staff room and someone’s gonna have to write an epic about it, you in?” 

“Nah. I’ve got Divination.” Niall steals Zayn’s pudding when he’s not looking, which is just more facial trauma waiting to happen. “And also, I don’t want to.” 

Zayn is halfway through adding swirls of green to Niall’s orange face — patriotic! — by the time Harry realises that he, too, has class. His valiant quest will have to be postponed, but will be no less valiant for it. Multivolume epic. He’s sure of it.


	3. Harry Styles and the Curse of the Corridor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never trust corridors, limbs, mirrors, brooms, or eyebrows.

Harry doesn’t have DADA again until Friday so he divides his time sensibly and maturely like the legal adult he is. He is sets aside time during the week for pestering Hagrid into letting him go and visit the hippogriffs, making Hubert the shot glass a candlelit dragon cave on his bedside table, staring at Nick during every meal, and coming up with foolproof excuses to wander around the DADA corridor. Harry feels he has excellent time management skills. Liam and his planner can bugger off. 

 Harry spends all of Wednesday afternoon helping the Slytherins enchant a walkway over their entrance swamp. Predictably, he then spends Wednesday evening trying to convince Louis that Harry supports him in all his noble endeavours that Harry is positive were warranted and just, he swears. Louis tells Harry he has betrayed the noble Gryffindor cause and storms out of the portrait hole in a huff. Louis comes back in three minutes later to forgive him, then storms out again, slamming the portrait harder this time. 

Louis likes to practice his huffs. 

Thursday morning Muggle Studies goes long and Harry makes it longer by staying back to talk to Lou. He likes this classroom, with its bright windows and round, cozy shape, the funny wind-chimes made of small metal birds and old silverware, and he likes Lou. Lou hasn’t been Professor Teasdale since Harry was a fifth-year and volunteered to visit her mismatched little house in Hogsmeade to do odd jobs whilst she was on maternity leave, which is probably why Harry’s mum says that his teachers are much hipper now than they were in her day. 

“Hiya, love,” says Lou, giving him a short hug. She seems frazzled but her tone is warm. “Y’alright?” 

“Yes, thanks,” says Harry, “Is Lux here?” 

Lou throws a quill at him. It lands on top of a quill she had earlier thrown at Zayn. Lou’s classroom is not tidy. 

“I see how it is, arsehole. No, she’s home with Tom this morning, but I’m going to bring her in some next week. Your class, actually, Hagrid’s doing something special.” 

Normally Harry would be all over this information but he has noble quests and things, very important nosing around to do. “Cool. So, um.” He fiddles with the Muggle electronics on Lou’s desk. They don’t work at Hogwarts but that never stops her from trying. “So, you know the new Defence prof?” 

“Nick? Yeah, he’s lovely, isn’t he? Haven’t seen him teach but I’ve been hearing good things.” Lou turns around from where she’s sorting textbooks into haphazard piles and frowns at him. “Put that down, you’ll break it.” 

Harry puts it down, and promptly picks something else up. “So, er. Do you know him at all?” 

Seven dogeared copies of _The Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_ spill off of Lou’s desk with a clatter. She ignores them. “Yeah, a bit. I was in the year ahead of him at school, actually. Different houses and my parents pulled me out for a few in there, but I’d seen him around. And, obviously, work things, but I’ve got a kid so I’m not as social with them as I’d like.” Lou gives him a slightly suspicious look over her shoulder. “Why the sudden interest?” 

Harry shifts suspiciously and tries to channel innocence. He was planning on asking Lou if she knew if Nick had any hobbies or perhaps a favourite type of vegetable. Harry likes asparagus. Perhaps Nick also likes asparagus. He is hopeful that they are vegetably compatible. “No real reason. He’s teaching DADA, I’m rubbish at DADA, just curious.” 

Lou rolls her eyes. “Love, you don’t have to take that class just because your mates all do. If it’s not for you that’s alright. Shouldn’t torture yourself.” 

“It’s not torture,” says Harry, bristling a little. “And I want to take it, it’s not because of my friends.” 

“Alright,” says Lou, holding her hands up in truce. “Calm thyself.” She checks the clock at the back of the room. The little arrow is point to ‘ETERNAL FRUSTRATION’ and the big one is on ‘TIME TO GO’. Harry has no idea what that means. “Not that I don’t love seeing you, but don’t you have class?” 

Harry looks at his watch. It has arrows that point to numbers. “Oh, yeah, guess so,” he says. He’d worry more about being late to Charms if he didn’t know about the secret staircase behind the statue of Eldred the Earache. “I’ll talk to you later, Lou.” 

“Bye, love. Oh — Harry,” says Lou, when Harry is almost out the door. He turns around. “You know who might know more about Nick? Professor Fincham. They were in the same year.” 

Professor Fincham teaches Transfiguration. It is very weird to think of him in the context of Nick. “Okay, I’ll ask him. Thanks, Lou.” 

Harry ends up being slightly late to Charms even with the secret passageway. Eldred the Earache is so called for a reason. 

 —

This is Matt Fincham’s third year teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts. Harry was only in his class for one, which was enough for Harry to make a nuisance of himself at Fincham persistently enough to make Finchy give in to his charms. That was a few years ago, though, and these days it’s slightly unusual for Harry to lurk around his rooms. Harry will have to cunning his way in. 

Professor Fincham is in his office, trading insults with Professor Phillips who does Astronomy. Harry knocks on the frame of the open door. 

Professor Phillips turns to make an overdramatic disgusted face. “Ew, _students_ ,” she scoffs, in her sharp American twang.

“It’s just Styles,” says Fincham, waving him in. Professor Phillips steals half of Fincham’s sandwich, sticks her tongue out at Harry and leaves the room. 

Harry is sure teachers are professional somewhere. 

Fincham puts some papers aside. “What can I do for you, Harry?” 

Harry has practised his cunning excuse in the mirror. “Erm, just a, er, Transfiguration question. About, like. Transfiguration.” 

Well, he practiced it once in the mirror. The mirror had told him he’d been very convincing. Harry thinks that mirror is maybe too kind. 

Fincham quirks his head to the side like a quizzical meercat. “What do you need that for? You’re not doing a Transfiguration NEWT.” 

“Er, just. Curiosity. I’m like a Ravenclaw, you know.” Harry grins at Fincham, motioning towards the enormous Ravenclaw banner hung behind the man’s head. “Knowledge is power!” Harry pumps his fist weakly and grins, hoping that his dimples will carry him through it. They usually do. 

Fincham laughs and waves a hand at the chair Professor Phillips recently vacated. “Alright, then, out with it. What’s your query.” 

Harry had not planned this far ahead. 

“Let me guess. It involves aquatic environments in some way.” Fincham’s eyebrows quirk and he smirks at Harry over the rim of his gigantic Transfiguration Today mug. 

Harry nods frantically. “Yes. That. Aquatic environments, fascinating. Actually — yeah.” In Muggle Studies Eleanor had been complaining about the swamp walkway corroding. The swalkway. Swampwalk? Walkswamp? Swalk? 

Harry knows that the swampway is corroding because Zayn has been transfiguring the wood more porous. Harry knows Zayn has been transfiguring the wood more porous because he was stood next to Zayn last night whilst he did it. Zayn is very proud of his destruction of the swampway. That morning Harry had made lots of sympathetic sounds to Eleanor whilst Zayn drew cartoons of talking toasters on Harry’s right forearm, channelling his smugness into cartoon joy.  

Harry absently covers his arm. “So, theoretically, is there a way to transfigure wood into, like, stone, without changing the structure in any other way?”

Fincham cocks his head to the side. There’s something warm happening to his face, the corners of his eyes starting to crinkle up a bit. “Well, yes, but I would think that a water resistance charm would do sufficiently.” 

“Any resistance against Louis is kind of futile,” says Harry automatically, before he can stop himself. He slaps a hand over his mouth. _Shit_ , he thinks, panic erupting in his insides like Hubert the shot glass’s smoke. Hubert is getting pretty good at smoke. Harry thinks he’s been learning from Zayn’s cigarettes. 

Fincham is not running out the door to go stick Louis in detention. This is a bit surprising. Fincham is not looking profoundly disappointed in Harry and Harry’s choice of friends and activities. This is also surprising. What is most surprising, however, that Fincham is giggling, like an adorable hyena. For the first time Harry can see him as a friend of Nick’s. 

Finchy shakes his head ruefully, his cackles dying down. “Truer words, Harry. Truer words. This morning alone… Well, story for another time. After you leave school.” 

Finchy doesn’t _seem_ upset or angry, but Harry can’t be sure. “Sorry,” he says, tugging at his lip as he backtracks, “That was a joke thing. Not a real thing. Joke thing. Falsehood. Falsity.” 

“Don’t worry about it, mate. I’m not going to land Tomlinson in shit. Trust me, in the bigger picture, that swamp is a puddle.” Finchy shakes his head again, like a tired niffler, and offers Harry a tin painted with blue and bronze eagles. The eagles appear to be carrying bits of other animals’ severed limbs in their beaks. “Biscuit?” 

Harry takes one obligingly and plans his next move whilst he chews. He can do this. He can stealthily steer this conversation. “So, were you like that in school? All swamp-doing sort of thing?” 

Something in Fincham’s face shutters, like a candle going out, or a door closing fast, _colloportus_. “No,” he says, turning away to shuffle some papers Harry’s pretty sure he just shuffled. “No, not really.” 

Harry looks at his hands awkwardly, chewing the remnants of his ginger newt, not sure what he did wrong. When Fincham turns back his face looks normal again; he’s smiling kindly. 

“I’ll look into the walkway, Harry. I’m sure we can work something out. That was good of you to think of the Slytherins like that.” 

Finchy makes a considering face for a minute, fingers steepled under his chin. “Alright. I will be _absolutely_ getting shit over this from certain colleagues later, but I’m going to give you five points to Gryffindor for fair play.” 

Harry smiles at the praise, though more than anything else he is immediately desperate to know whether ‘colleagues’ means Nick. Actually, Harry doesn’t actually know if Nick _was_ a Gryffindor, now that he thinks about it. He just sort of seems like one. Reckless and brash, with a drink in his hand. Some houses shag strangers in club loos. Gryffindor is one of those houses.

“Thanks, Finchy,” says Harry. He gets to his feet, sensing a dismissal. 

“You too, Harry. Have a nice Thursday.” 

Fincham turns around in his chair to mark an essay with a gigantic D. He inks a sad smiley next to the letter, then adds a bulbous tear under one of its eyes. Holding the parchment out for a better view, Fincham surveys it for a minute, satisfied. 

Harry hides a smile. He can definitely see Finchy as Nick’s friend, now. 

 —

Over breakfast on Friday Louis is squinting at the staff table with a frown that makes everyone within hexing distance touch their wands for reassurance. “Finchy has something on me. I’m sure of it. There have been _comments_.” 

Harry grabs some pumpkin juice to slurp innocently. 

“Yeah, he definitely knows,” confirms Niall wisely. Niall had Divination yesterday so he’s been particularly all-knowing all morning. Harry calls it a divinations hangover. They usually last about 4-12 hours, depending on how well scrying went and how much Niall has been hydrating. 

Zayn scoffs witheringly. “Did you read that in your tea leaves or summat?” The last time Niall read injury in Zayn’s tea leaves Zayn spent the week wearing Quidditch Keeper safety pads under all his clothes and clinging onto the railings of moving staircases. He still broke an ankle.

Niall shrugs a shoulder. “Nah. Didn’t have to.” Nail takes a big bite of bacon and eggs, chewing loudly. “He told me knows.” 

Harry slurps more pumpkin juice. Hydration is essential for health. 

Louis sneers. “ _Typical_ Finchy.”  

“Well, Fincham hasn’t done anything about it, has he?” asks Liam, reasonably. 

Harry wonders if Hubert would like pumpkin juice. He takes the shot glass out of his pocket and sloshes some inside. Hubert blows smoke at him.

“No,” says Louis, scowling, “Which is just irritating. That is a _diabolical_ prank. He should string me up by the ankles in the Southeast Courtyard. He should take 50 points from Gryffindor and put my name on the hourglass. That prank will live in _infamy_. There are mosquitos. There were first years who almost drowned.” 

“I think they were just swimming, actually,” says Harry, feeling a lot better now. He drinks some pumpkin juice from Hubert, who tries to bite his nose.  

“There is a collapsing walkway and a bunch of moss that looks like a crocogator —“

“Crocodile,” says Zayn.

“— and nothing? No acknowledgement? None.” Louis huffs and steals a page of Liam’s Charms notes. Louis steals things to feel better. They all have their ways of coping. “This is an outrage. We _have_ to do something.” 

Liam’s eyes light up and he looks away from the pilfered notes. “Oh _no_ ,” he opines with relish. 

“Oh _yes_ ,” says Louis. He rubs his hands together. Harry is pretty sure seventh year is turning him into a cartoon villain. 

Zayn kicks Harry lightly and makes an expressive nod to their left. Eleanor is on her way over from the Slytherin table. Zayn and Harry grin at each other. Eleanor likes to hit Louis and it’s a good laugh. 

Exactly twenty seconds later Eleanor thwacks the back of Louis’s head with a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet. It is, as predicted, a good laugh. 

Louis turns to beam and flutter his eyelashes at her. “Ah, Eleanor, light of my life, queen of my heartsoul, vanquisher of the sadness of my spirit. The Guinevere to my Lancelot. The Ginny Weasley to my Harry Potter.” Somewhere down the table, a group of second-years sigh, wistfully. Harry hears one of them whisper to the others that someday she wants a love that beautiful in her life.

Louis and Eleanor snog sometimes at parties. That’s basically an epic romance at Hogwarts. 

Eleanor folds her arms. “Louis, could you please quit ruining the damn swamp walkway, please.” 

“Swampwalk,” says Harry, brightly. “You should call it the Swampwalk.” 

“Swampwalk?” asks Niall, frowning. Harry pouts. No one understands him. 

Liam fingers his Prefect badge and makes tragic eyebrows. “Oh _no,_ what has been done to the walkway?” 

“That wasn’t me, it was Zayn,” says Louis serenely as he kicks Zayn underneath the table with savage Quidditch team strength. Only he doesn’t kick Zayn, he kicks Harry, and that’s how Harry knows he tried to kick Zayn. 

“Ow, says Harry quietly, reaching down to check that his shin still exists. 

Zayn, who has use of both of his legs probably (bastard), shrugs at Eleanor and pours milk in his tea, unapologetic. 

Eleanor stares him down for a minute before tossing her hair, turning back to Louis. “Yeah, I really don’t care,” says Eleanor, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, it’s been done now. Move on.” 

Louis twists further around in his seat. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his teeth splitting his face, “I’m really getting a feel for deconstructive transfiguration. It’d be irresponsible to give it up now.” 

Eleanor rolls her eyes and passes her thwacking newspaper to Zayn, who likes to read the Style section. “Fine. This counts as fair warning. Fair warning, Lou. Remember how you brought this on yourself.” She pats Louis on the cheek and turns on her heel, weaving through Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw to return to her table. 

“HAVE A _SPLENDID_ DAY, SLAYER OF MY UNHAPPINESS! YOU ARE THE DUELLER FOR DELIGHT, THE HERMIONE GRANGER TO MY RON WEASLEY!” bellows Louis after her, loud enough that Finchy and Nick are giggling at him up at the staff table. Not that Harry’s looking at the staff table. Nick is in red today. Sort of a cranberry. Maybe a scarlet. It’s nice.

“Y’know, if the anecdotes on the Chocolate Frog cards are right, that’s the only accurate analogy you’ve ever made,” notes Zayn, who has spent the last two minutes making an Eiffel Tower out of discarded silverware.

Maybe Nick’s jumper is maroon. Or crimson. It’s a dark red that sort of brings out the — Louis snaps his fingers in Harry’s face. 

“Pay attention, Styles. I appreciate that you are concerned about the intentions of my teacherly nemesis Finchy von Transfiguration, but there is no need to smoulder with directionless rage. I have it all handled.” 

Liam shifts rapidly in his seat. “Oh dear oh my. You can’t possibly intend to prank a professor, Louis, truly!” 

Louis adds a pear to the top of Zayn’s fork tower. “Nah, boring. What’s in it for me? Just one person is thinking far too small. No, I thought it was high time for that the most honoured of Gryffindor customs: the traditional rite of underage drinking, sacrilegious tunes, certain injury and possible death and all-around general shenanigans.” 

“Oh,” says Liam, a little sadly, “But we’re of age.” 

“Yes, Liam. We _are_ of age. Do you know what that means?” 

Liam shakes his head. Louis smiles terrifyingly at the cavalcade of owls that swoop through the windows. Zayn shields his fork tower. Louis notices, and removes one of the forks from the base, swiftly. It topples. “ _Owl-order_.” Sure enough, three mysteriously noisy packages drop all on top of each other right where Louis’s plate used to be. He beams. 

“Harry,” says Niall, prodding Harry in the face with an envelope. “Haz, you in there? Should I get a possession amulet out?” 

“Huh?” asks Harry, tearing his eyes away from where Nick is showing something in a box to Professor Phillips. The box really sets off his hands. It’s sort of a brown box, precisely the colour of a porlock’s tail. 

“‘Cause if you _were_ possessed that’d explain loads about the last six years.” Niall waits a beat before jabbing Harry in the face again and laughing heartily, hands grabbing his stomach like he fancies himself a skinny blond Father Christmas. 

Harry checks his watch. There are 28 minutes until DADA starts. It takes twelve minutes to get to the classroom and eight if he runs. Abruptly, Harry’s lungs start to expand like they are being controlled by the wings of a rabid fwooper doing timed hyperventilation trials. 

“Well!” says Harry, standing up so fast he has to catch himself on the table. “That was a strong breakfast. Excellent toast. Now time for class, better hurry, could be late! Early bird gets the worm! First flitterby never fails to get her bee! C’mon lads!” 

Harry beams at them, arms akimbo. They stare back, unmoved. Liam has egg in his hair. Niall is frozen midbite of the fork tower pear. Harry sighs. He loves his boys, but they are clearly not committed to scholastic success. Harry leaves them to their lives of middling NEWTs, shifting his bag over one shoulder. He does the route out of the Great Hall and into the depths of the castle at a brisk walk, lapping knots of younger students along the way. 

Eight minutes, pah. Harry is pretty sure he’ll only need six. He takes the stairs three at a time. Harry has very long legs. They are made for punctuality. They are made for speed. He is the cheetah of Hogwarts. He is the bandicoot of dreams. He is —

He is tripping over thin air. 

Or, no. He’s tripping over Peeves, who is _like_ thin air, only opaque. Mostly opaque. 

“Poor Hairy,” cackles Peeves. Harry is face down on the stone. He can tell the poltergeist is spelling his name wrong from his voice.  

“Thanks Peeves,” says Harry grumpily. He wishes he was better at being rude. There is dust all over Harry’s face. He’s on the fifth floor landing and it’s pure luck and probably also thanks to the good luck medallion that Niall gave him last Christmas that Peeves hasn’t shoved his satchel over the edge of the staircase. Frantically, he checks his pocket for Hubert. Hubert bites him. Harry takes that as a good sign. 

“Harry?” 

Oh no. So much for that medallion. Suave, damnit, Harry had wanted to be _suave_. He looks up, wincing into his fate. It’s Nick, obviously, all handsome and rakish in a threadbare jumper that Harry can see clearly is definitely burgundy. 

Before Harry can get a chance to redeem himself by saying something devastatingly witty, Peeves swoops over with half a picture frame. It knocks hard into Nick’s legs. Nick topples with a strangled sound, his stack of papers going flying. 

“Oof,” says Nick, rubbing his knee. He squints up at the ceiling, towards where Peeves has gone flying off. “Yeah, cool. Good one, Peeves. So much for grace under pressure.” 

Harry grins at him, suddenly extremely pleased. “Don’t worry, you fell over and lost all your things very gracefully.” 

Nick pulls at the leg of his trousers to examine the skin beneath. It is the start to a patchwork of Nick’s nudity that Harry will have to nobly piece together, one inadvertently exposed inch of flesh at a time. “I’m a well reviewed ballerina of physically incompetent renown, Harry. I’m glad you understand this about me.” 

Harry frowns when Nick pulls his trouser leg back down. The Patchwork of Nick’s Nudity is going to have to rely heavily on his photographic memory. It’s too bad Harry doesn’t have a photographic memory. “You’re perfect for Alas, I Have Transfigured My Feet,” says Harry wisely. 

Nick stands up, folding and unfolding his gangly limbs. He has legs that are longer than most first years. “Never the translation, Harold. Only in the original French.” He holds a hand out and tugs Harry to his feet easily. Nick’s stronger than he looks, which Harry should have remembered from the manhandling in the loo of the Horny Hippogriff. 

Nick’s breath ghosts over Harry’s face. Nick has dropped Harry’s hand but hasn’t moved back, and Harry can’t help it. He melts a little towards Nick, trying to close the space between them. There’s a moment when Harry thinks Nick is about to brush him off, like he did the other day in the classroom. 

Nick swallows hard and pulls away, shattering the moment. Harry feels cross, like a niffler who is denied something shiny. It’s not a nice feeling. 

Nick bends down to gather their things, and Harry ogles his arse. Reliably, it vastly improves his mood. Nick is grabbing each piece of parchment by hand, sorting his papers up into a crumpled pile. Most teachers would use magic. Nick doesn’t. It’s charming. 

“C’mon, let’s go learn stuff,” says Nick, once Harry’s set up with his bag. Nick puts a hand to the small of Harry’s back but doesn’t quite touch him. Harry’s not in robes. He can feel the heat of the gesture through his jumper, and it spreads through his body like a warming charm. 

Harry coughs, to hide the shiver. “Aren’t you supposed to know stuff already?” 

Nick laughs. “A common mistake that is frequently made, but no, Harold, I am a creature of great curiosity and also planning. I definitely planned ahead for this. Definitely did not spend last night listening to Charms Over Notting Hill and wondering whether the bloke who voices Miguel would go out with me even though I had three olives and half a jar of American peanut paste for my tea.” 

 Harry makes an internal note to look up the bloke who voices Miguel and make sure he is hideously, horribly ugly and also possibly a troll. Cross-species romances are not romantic they are _creepy_ and sexually complicated and probably painful and Liam can go eat his centaur romances. Harry coughs again. He sounds like he has dragonpox. “You can’t, anyway. He’s too busy. Miguel is dating Amy, and Sandra is carrying his evil vampire twin’s baby and she thinks it’s his. What’s American peanut paste?”

Nick elbows him in the side with an affronted expression. “It is a sandwich spread made of nuts, dreams and obesity, and I’m upset you’ve never had any. I’ll give you a bit sometime.” 

“Okay,” says Harry. “So, with those great reserves of curiosity of yours, were you in Ravenclaw?” 

Nick snorts a laugh. “Why, did Finchy tell you that? Houseist bastard. No, I was a Gryffindor. Am a Gryffindor? House of great decisions, all round, always, definitely did not wake up hungover in any strange fireplaces at all at any point of my life.” 

“Thought so.” Harry is satisfied that he was correct in his assessment of the sorts of people who generally shag in loos: Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs make it home, Slytherins shag out on the dance floor, and Ravenclaws… Well, Ravenclaws aren’t fans of conventionality. It’s hard to say with a Ravenclaw. Harry’s pretty sure whatever it is they do, it’s probably illegal. 

They’re almost at Nick’s classroom now. Nick is rambling on about the flattering and unflattering natures of various house colours and how one should always pity Hufflepuffs because so few people look good in yellow. Harry examines his elastic face for a minute before interrupting. “Hey, shouldn’t this be weird?” 

Nick opens the door to his classroom with his back and flicks his wand to raise the lights. He doesn’t miss a beat.“You know, I thought it would be,” he says thoughtfully, clearing debris off a few chairs. “Maybe I should make some attempt to feel more weird. Probably that would be more adulty, innit.” 

“I think the word adulty is particularly adulty,” says Harry, hiding a smile as he dumps his things and hops up on a table.

Nick flaps his hand at Harry and goes to the front of the room to set up his desk. “Hush, you. Meditate or something youthful like that, ready your mind for learning. We can continue on being surprisingly unweird sometime when I’ve done the lesson plan I’m meant to present in three minutes.” Nick is facing away from Harry but his voice has that smile in it, the one that makes Harry feel like a Common Welsh Green is breathing fire in his ribs, but in a nice way. It never really disappears. 

Harry occupies himself with adjusting Hubert in his pocket home, so that he doesn’t say something stupid. Nick is looking at the front and back of his papers like he isn’t sure who wrote them and is pretty sure he can’t read the handwriting. 

“If you were a Ravenclaw you would’ve done your lesson plan already,” says Harry smugly. 

Nick smiles into his shoulder. He’s trying to hide it, but Harry can see the crinkles around his eyes deepen. The Common Welsh Green in Harry’s ribcage is joined by a Swedish Short-Snout and a Hungarian Horntail for a mid-afternoon dragon barbecue. 

Nick tries to throw some parchment at him but it doesn’t make it across the room. “Stop interacting with Matthew Fincham. He’s a horrible influence. Nothing he tells you about me is true.  Go and drink something poisonous and jump off things that are too high, would you. Live up to your stereotype.” 

“You rhymed again,” says Harry, settling in for another solid ten minutes of pestering. He delicately does not mention his weekend plans. “A Ravenclaw would do blank verse.” 

 —

At half eleven on Saturday night all of Gryffindor 7th and most of Gryffindor 6th meet up on the Quidditch pitch to drink something poisonous and jump off things that are too high. 

The game is called Broom Doom —Harry had floated Bambroomzled once, no dice — and is a mixture of strip poker, I have never, Quidditch and what would happen were there to be a fireworks display in the centre of the primate house at the zoo. The five of them invented it in fifth year and it is responsible for 25% of their detentions and 46% of their extracurricular injuries. It is 100% a success. 

Saturday’s game has a surprisingly small injury rate. No one dies, and Harry only falls off his broom fourteen and three quarter times, so he counts it as a personal best. They play until half three, then creep back into the castle giggly and drunk, doing their best to stay quiet and not fumble over too many suits of armour in the dark. 

“Shhhhhh,” says Niall, his shushing about eight times louder than what he was trying to shush. Harry giggles and nearly falls off Zayn’s back trying to poke Niall in the cheek. He tightens his hold on Zayn’s neck. Zayn is carrying Harry because Harry has already knocked over two suits of armour and cannot be trusted with his limbs. 

Leigh-Anne elbows Niall in the side. She’s a Beater, alongside Louis. If Niall hadn’t already flown into a tree whilst chugging a bottle of firewhiskey and fist-pumping to God Save Ye Mighty Hippogriffs earlier that night, Leigh-Anne’s elbow would be the reason why he’ll be hurting tomorrow. 

“As I was saying, before I was so _rudely interrupted,_ we should try that move you did at practice.”  

Louis mimes a Beater’s bat, and makes a sound effect that Harry is fairly sure is supposed to be a skull cracking. Leigh-Anne mimes brain oozing out of her facial orifices. They both giggle. 

Harry is not sure why people think they’re the hero house. 

At the entrance to the tower the Fat Lady is sleeping, snoring softly against her frame. It’s always Harry’s job to wake her up and charm her into letting them in without making a fuss about the hour, so he sleepily slides off of Zayn and makes his way towards the front of the group.

Perrie is up ahead, wand out for light. “Hey, Hazza, do you think the floor looks —" 

Perrie is cut off mid-sentence by the ear-splitting sound of pop sensation Hortense and the Muggles bursting from her feet. 

“Hey, what —" Harry stumbles forward in surprise, and the stone slab beneath him heats up, a warble of crooning male voices blaring out somewhere around his toes. 

_SINCE THE DAY YOU APPARATED INTO MY LIFE_

Harry claps his hands over his ears. The Fat Lady jolts awake, shouting something at them he can’t hear. 

_CAN’T STAND TO BE ALONE_

“Too louddd,” he whines, although no one can understand him over the dulcet tones of boy band Elixir’s latest number one.

_MY BOGART IS LEAVING YOU BABY_

Liam, Louis and Leigh-Anne approach them with their wands outstretched as if the music is some sort of offensive tactic they must vanquish with force. 

_PETRIFY MY HEART TO STONE_

The moment they’re within a foot of Harry, the sound doubles, then triples. Tunes burst from beneath their feet, earsplitting odes from WWN Beat Youth that do _not_ sound good remixed together. Perrie lets out an honest-to-god howl, like a werewolf. She’s wrapped her blond head in her jumper. Liam is shooting red sparks at the floor below him that aren’t doing much besides make the corridor flash like a rave. 

Zayn and Jade holding back the rest of the group, the latter putting an arm out to keep Jesy from darting over to Leigh-Anne. Niall tries to run forward, perhaps to save Harry. Harry is sure his face is at its most tragic because his ears are at the most painful. 

“Oh, for FUCK’S SAKE!” Zayn shouts. “Don’t BLOODY MOVE.” 

Niall listens to Zayn. The boys of Elixir do not listen to Zayn. They keep singing their hearts out. 

The stone beneath Louis gives an almighty creak and snaps, the floor groaning. Harry shrieks, hands still fastened to his ears, and Louis looks up at him guiltily from where his wand is still pointed at the rubble. 

“Oops,” he mouths. Maybe he says it. Harry can’t tell. It’s so loud that his head is going to implode like a puffskein under a herd of buffalo. Like a sea turtle under the hoofs of Bicorns. Like a dugbog crushed on the A1. 

Harry wants to curl up in a ball but he’s pretty sure that it’s louder by the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, hands digging into his hair. 

When Harry opens his eyes, Professor Longbottom and Nick are standing behind Zayn and the others, dishevelled in sleep clothes and looking torn between exhausted irritation and hysterical laughter. Nick is leaning heavily towards the latter. He’s also leaning heavily on Professor Longbottom. Nick is bent almost completely, shoulders shaking wildly, trying and failing to control the look on his face. He’s got a gigantic Hortense and the Muggles t-shirt on. It gapes around the collarbone. Harry should not find as attractive as he does, especially under the circumstances. His sex drive is apparently unaffected by auditory trauma. He adds the sight to his Patchwork of Nick’s Nudity. The light is a bit disco for ideal memorisation, but Harry is courageous in the face of adversity. 

Nick and Professor Longbottom get to work immediately. It’s somewhat incongruous to see them do it, all sure movements in sleep shorts and fierce expressions under their mops of bedhead. Elixir isn’t finished singing how they swear they’ll never Apparate Away (From U, Girl) when Harry can finally remove his hands from his ears. He feels quite bewildered. He is not the only one. 

They get a week of detention each and 85 collective points off of Gryffindor — both Nick and Professor Longbottom seem very cross about this, and Nick tries to persuade Longbottom that 10 was surely sufficient — and are sent into Gryffindor tower in disgrace. 

“A rollicking night,” pronounces Louis, when they get up to their dorm. He throws his muddy shirt in the middle of the floor on top of another muddy shirt that is probably also his. “Fine show by Slytherin. Their vengeance will come.” 

“Not this week. We’ve 8 years of detention.” Niall flops down into his bed fully clothed.

“Next time I hope their show is quieter,” says Harry, rubbing his ears. He still feels sort of drunk and off-kilter. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Nick and his whole head hurts already. He is very emotional. It is a very emotional time. Nick was wearing a Hortense and the Muggles t-shirt and Harry has flown into three separate trees in the last two hours. Distraught, he crawls into Liam’s lap and lays there like his cat does, poking the ticklish bit of Liam’s knee until he pets Harry’s curls. 

“Poor Harry,” says Liam, hands busy in his hair. “You ill?” 

Harry grunts into Liam’s leg in protest. Throw up in your trunk _one time_ in fifth year and you’ll never hear the end of it. 

“Poor Harry? Poor _me_ ,” says Louis, chucking his dirty pants at him. “Double pranked by Slytherin _and_ detention fucks with Quidditch practice all week so I’ll have to plan vengeance between classes. This is a travesty.” 

Harry falls asleep to the sound of Louis is making wild threats as Liam pretends not to goad him on. Zayn and Niall’s snores sound like mourning from a gnome funeral. Harry is going to be _so_ hungover tomorrow. 

It’s a regular Saturday night in Gryffindor Tower. 

 —

The next morning dawns bright and early, which says something about Harry’s state of mind as it is autumn in northern Scotland and thus cold, dim and rainy. Harry wakes up with Liam half on top of him, mouth open as he sleeps. 

Harry didn’t remember Liam having that drawing of a penis on his forehead last night. 

Over by his bed, Hubert the shot glass is judging him. Harry makes a cross face and then feels bad. Hubert may just miss his soothing proximity in the nighttime. Poor Hubert. It’s not Hubert’s fault that Harry makes very bad decisions about his life and also his choices. He brings Hubert with him to breakfast. 

They’re all quiet on the way out of the tower, avoiding the Fat Lady’s judgemental stare and the stones that are still musically gifted. A group of talkative third-years inevitably sets the music off behind them and they groan, harmoniously. Harry tries to feel appreciative that Hortense and the Muggles and her musical friends are at least quieter, now. 

 It’s a tragic march. They are weak and weary, and they have lost men in the war. Well, they have lost _man_ in the war. Zayn was impenetrable to all of their low-effort wakeup strategies, and their usual methods are way, way too loud. 

Underneath the drizzly, far-too-bright sky of the Great Hall, the Gryffindor table is clearly delineated. At one end, bright, peppy lower years chatter excitedly over orange juice and at the other wan, rumpled upper years are sat staring into their coffee like underneath the muddy liquid could reside the saviour of the wizarding world. Well, another one. One made mostly to cure hangovers. 

Across the hall, Harry notes that Eleanor and the Slytherins are looking very fresh and very pleased with themselves. Louis gives them the finger. Eleanor makes a lewd gesture that somehow conveys both “horse cock” and “pile of hinkypunk shit”. 

She’s gifted at mime. 

Harry moans as he slides onto the bench, draping himself over Louis and burying his face in  the other boy’s neck. He’s half in Louis’s lap. It’s the only way he can escape the demon sky with its demon sky rays. “I hate everything,” he mumbles. “I’m never drinking again.”

Louis pats his back fondly. “Yes, I’m sure that was why you brought a shot glass to breakfast.” 

“Hubert is not just a shot glass,” grumbles Harry, poking Louis in the stomach. “That’s mean, you take that back.”

Louis does not take that back. 

Liam has his head flat on the table. He has not spoken a word since they left Gryffindor Tower, but he was walking with his legs and is breathing with his lungs so Harry figures he is probably alive. Niall, on the other hand, is chattering animatedly with a fifth-year named Jenny. Niall is probably still drunk. Harry hates him. A curse upon his lands and people. A thousand curses. May jarveys live always in his garden. May warthogs fart on the graves of his ancestors. 

“You want some tea, Haz?” Niall passes him a mug. 

Niall is the absolute greatest human. Harry never meant that about his lands and people or the graves of his ancestors. 

Harry unwinds himself from Louis enough to grasp the mug and in so doing glances over at the staff table, out of habit. Nick’s looking at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. He cocks an eyebrow and mimes a bottle. Harry shakes his head mournfully. He mouths ‘never again’, and Nick laughs, all eye-crinkly. 

Harry drinks his tea. It’s definitely the tea that makes him feel better. That’s all. 


	4. Harry Styles and the Far, Far Too Much Sex He’s Getting, Apparently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Gruff Indoors infiltrate enemy wards, unicorns get rather hung up on the virgin/whore dichotomy, and Harry doesn't have very much sex for someone who is having far, far too much sex, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like jk rowling i hit the fourth instalment and pretty much doubled my word count. here, have just under 10k of nonsense and banter! 
> 
> thanks to bee for listening to me ramble and providing ideas and several key lines; my gentleman caller for his pun prowess, and also to several sundry heroes and champions of tumblr for suggesting slytherin students and possible clique names. i would like to name all of you but i'm afraid of forgetting people, so just know that you light up my world (like nobody else). partly because my laptop screen is illuminated, and partly because of my emotions.

“All righ’, everybody!” Hagrid claps his dustbin hands together, beaming at the class. “Special treat for yeh today. Unicorns!” 

The class buzzes. Across the grass, three shining silver unicorns graze lazily. Two of them are miniature, like scaled dreams of house elves. They are chewing grass in their tiny, miniature teeth. Harry wants to fall over and wriggle for a bit it is so precious. He shoots an out-of-control grin at Lou, who’s stood by the paddock fence with Lux, and shimmies his shoulders with happiness. 

“Good surprise,” he mouths, and Lou nods indulgently, bouncing Lux a little bit on her hip. Lux is the third cutest thing in Harry’s eyesight. This has never happened before. He feels guilty for a minute, until he decides loyally that they are equal and distinct kinds of adorable and thus cannot possibly be ranked. 

“So we’ve done them a few years ago,” says Hagrid, looking a bit twitchy, “An’ we told yeh then tha’ they like girls, mostly, which is true, mind, bu’… Well, we’ve got ter tell yeh now, fer yer NEWTs, an’ all, wha’ they really like is…” 

“Virgins,” says Eleanor flatly, unimpressed. She’s not even looking at the unicorns. Harry has no idea how she is not draped all over the fence of the paddock with joy: the tiny unicorns have itty bitty horns in the centre of their itty bitty faces. 

“Tha’s right,” says Hagrid, looking relieved that he doesn’t have to say it out loud. Lou snorts softly, off to Harry’s left. 

Eleanor has her arms crossed over her chest. “And you told us they prefer girls because you’re subject to the patriarchal misconception that girls are somehow less likely to have intercourse.”

 Harry has pressed himself up against the fence now, gazing hungry-eyed at the unicorns. Tiny hooves. They have tiny, tiny hooves they could probably fit in his hand and then they could _shake hooves_ , Merlin’s printed _pants_ , is there anything cuter in the entire known world than shaking hooves with a baby unicorn? If there is Harry believes in god and Merlin and miracles. 

At the corner of Harry’s eye, Hagrid looks antsy, shooting Lou a panicked look that she does not return as she’s too busy smirking. “Well, see. They _do_ prefer girls.” 

Eleanor snorts. “Not to mention the ridiculous idea that virginity is a cut and dry concept to begin with.” 

One of the tiny unicorns snuffles, like it’s sneezing. Harry’s heart clenches like a threatened armadillo, or a pufferfish under a shrinking spell. He wants a camera. He _needs_ a camera. It is imperative that he takes 300 photographs of that tiny unicorn doing a tiny sneeze and and look at them every single day. 

Hagrid shifts, tugging at his massive beard. “Uh, well. There’s somethin about frequency, an’ levels… Yeh’ll see, yeh’ll figure it ou’. If yeh’d like ter come wi’ me… Yeh can know for yerself whether yeh can make it in. Jus’ trust yer judgement.” Hagrid opens the gate and beckons them forward. Most of the class goes ahead, some more confidently than others. 

“The traditional concept of penetrative sex is only possible when there is a penis involved,” says Eleanor.

Harry tilts his head for a minute. Unicorns are kind of sexist, he decides. This does not stop him from wanting to bury his face into their manes and stay there for the rest of his life. 

Hagrid is eying Eleanor nervously, like she is a blast-ended skrewt and he is not wearing protective gloves. Eleanor raises her eyebrows. Hagrid claps his hands together again, looking towards the unicorns again awkwardly. Lou is now snort-laughing openly. 

“So! we’ve go’ two baby unicorns, an’ a mum. The mum’s gonna be a mite protective, so we’ll approach slow.” Hagrid moves further into the paddock, ushering the more confident students on. In the distance, Harry can hear Eleanor ask Hagrid if unicorns privilege blow-jobs over cunnilingus. 

“Best stay back, Harry, or you’ll be impaled,” says Niall, coming up behind Harry and mussing his hair. “And not in the way you’re used to.” Niall cackles, the force of it threatening to bowl him over. He has to hold on to the fence post in order not to lose his balance.

Harry hates Niall. Niall is the worst.

Niall wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, somehow immune to the force of Harry’s extremely justified loathing. “Ah, that was a good one, mate.” 

If glares were _reducto_ s Niall would be a small pile of ash. 

Niall claps him on the shoulder, unfazed by his imminent disintegration. “Alright, I’m gonna go frolic with some fancy horses. Later, slapper.” 

Niall, horrible traitorous wretch that he is, leaves Harry at the fence to make his way gingerly towards the unicorns. Maybe a quarter of the class is petting them, with a larger group stood behind Hagrid, making tentative steps forward and back again. 

There are about three people who’ve hung back outside the paddock with Harry, but they don’t seem to mind their despicable plights. Incredibly, they’ve all flopped down in the grass and are talking amongst themselves. Harry does not understand how they are being so calm. The unicorns have tiny little silver tails. They will _never_ get to touch the tiny little silver tails. Harry is on the verge of tears with unrequited love for the tiny unicorns’ tiny little silver tails, how can anyone _chat_ at a time like this?

“Here, love, watch her for me, will you?” Lou deposits an armful of toddler without waiting for Harry to reply. “I’m going to get a closer look. Best not to have the baby around if the mum decides Niall isn’t virginal enough.” 

Harry turns to look at her, utterly betrayed. No one loves him. Everyone is a traitor. “You _have a child_ ,” he says indignantly, “That is _distinct proof_ of non-virginity.” 

Lou kisses him on the cheek. “Yes, you great massive baby. But unicorns don’t mind that so much with women.” 

Lou leaves him at the fence, like everyone has left him at the fence, like everyone will always leave him at the fence for the rest of his life. Harry will spend the rest of his natural born years so close yet so far from itty bitty unicorn manes and soft warm unicorn fuzz faces. And he’s a wizard. That’s a long time. 

Harry looks down into Lux’s round baby face. “You love me, right?” Lux puts sticky fingers on his chin. She smells like pumpkin juice. “ _You_ don’t care that I’m a slag.” 

Across the paddock, someone gives a shriek of joy and flings their arms around a tiny unicorn’s tiny neck. 

Harry holds Lux tighter. Lux won’t leave him. Lux is the only one who loves him properly in the whole world. 

 —

Harry takes his foul mood with him to Defence Against the Dark Arts, where it only gets worse. Traitorous Niall tells the others why he’s stroppy, which means he must endure 60 minutes of taunting whilst juggling _impedimenda_ targeting (he is, predictably, rubbish), trying not to get distracted by Nick and continuing to sulk over the tiny, tiny hooves that have been left unshook. 

Harry sulks during the introduction, he sulks during the demonstration, he sulks during the applied lesson and he sulks whilst he packs up his things. He is so focused on sulking that he doesn’t notice the classroom empty, or Nick coming up behind him. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, then, Harry Styles?” Harry jolts, and turns around. Nick’s voice is as light as ever, but his forehead is doing a thing. It’s a nice thing. Tender. 

Harry does his best to maintain his grumpiness in the face of Nick’s forehead thing. It’s a matter of principal. “Unicorns,” he says, “Couldn’t go near them in class.” 

There’s a beat where Nick just looks at him, expressionless. It’s not a long beat, but it’s long enough for Harry to feel like his grumpiness is going to go unassaulted, so when Nick’s whole eyes go helpless and his mouth twists into a really bad attempt at suppressing a smile Harry’s guard is completely down. 

“Shut up,” says Harry, the corners of his mouth rising despite himself. It’s like trying to keep hold of something just cast with _wingardium leviosa_. “It was shitty, okay? I’m upset about it.” 

Nick continues to look at him. He is no longer even _trying_ to subdue his incredulous grin.   

“I _am_ ,” insists Harry, losing control of his frown altogether, “Hey, stop it, I’m trying to be cross here.” 

Nick pokes him in the dimple. “Of course you are, love. I’m very sorry. I was just basking in the unspeakable tragedy that is your existence and I’m a bit loss for words. Is it very terrible for you, Harold? Are you suffering horribly?” 

“I _am_ ,” whines Harry. He is well aware he is whining. He is also well aware that he is whining whilst smiling, which sort of undercuts the whining and also the very real emotional pain that has been his day. 

Nick shakes his head, that grin going even wider. He pats Harry’s shoulder. “C’mon, tragic hero, let’s get you out of this medieval hellhole. Looming mouthy gargoyles don’t help anyone’s mood. Come to my office and I’ll give you some American peanut paste, how’s that.” 

American peanut paste will not spellotape together the shattered pieces of Harry’s broken heart, he thinks, but he follows along anyway. There’s a sort of body warmth that emanates from Nick that’s different than when he’s close to anyone else. It sets his blood thrumming and makes him stupid. Not that _this_ is stupid, _this_ is just a voyage for American peanut paste to try to mend the tears in Harry’s tortured, deprived soul. 

He would kind of like it if this was stupid. That would do a lot for his mood. 

“I’m still going to be cross,” Harry warns, as they leave the room. 

“I understand,” says Nick, “Your life is a trial and tribulation. Someone should write an epic poem. Young Harold and the Far, Far Too Much Sex He’s Getting, Apparently: A Tragedy.” 

Harry scowls at Nick. Well, he scrunches up his nose at him, possibly whilst smiling. It’s close enough. “I couldn’t even get within ten feet of them, okay, I’m really upset.” 

“If only we all had your hopeless plight at seventeen, Harold. ‘ _Oooh_ I’m _sad_ , I’m just so pretty and charming and have been shagged _so_ many times that I can’t go near unicorns, boo hoo.’” 

Nick is mocking him. Harry should be annoyed about it. It should not feel like an _ascendio_ in his chest.  

“For someone who’s Far, Far Too Much Sex Getting Apparently, I’m really not getting much at all,” says Harry petulantly, in his own defence. 

Nick makes a choking sound. Harry nearly grins at in satisfaction before he remembers he is supposed to be upset. Harry shoves Nick’s arm in retaliation for ruining his very legitimate strop. Surprisingly, he nearly pushes Nick into a suit of armour Harry has absolutely knocked over before. It’s not really the force of Harry’s arms that do it, though. It’s mostly because Harry trips during the shoving process. Nick shoves him back and they end up getting into an incredibly undignified slap fight that is mostly ducking and giggling. 

“My word, Hogwarts truly has gone to the krups,” huffs a portrait of an intricately coiffed Victorian witch. “Young people today! Absolutely _no_ sense of decorum.” She sniffs, holding a lace handkerchief to her pointed nose.

Harry ignores her in favour of trying to tickle each Nick’s neck. Nick manages to pinch the soft part of Harry’s side, which makes him squeal like a niffler and Harry bats for Nick’s face, giggling. He doesn’t get far. Swiftly, Nick catches Harry’s arms in progress. Nick’s thumbs press against the thin inside skin of Harry’s wrists, warm against his veins and all the breath goes out of Harry’s lungs in a whoosh. 

Harry thought that the dancing troupe of diricawls would have moved out of his chest cavity by now, but apparently he was mistaken. Not only are they still in residence, but it feels like they have also hatched thousands of fire-breathing ashwinders that are now burning through Harry’s blood, spreading inch by tingling inch through his veins. 

Nick’s eyes are dark, hooded, his gaze as focused as Harry has ever seen it. The ashwinders take residence low in Harry’s belly, arousal igniting like fiendfyre. Harry bites his lip hard, tugs it into his mouth, gratified to hear Nick’s breath hitch audibly. Harry tilts his face up, angles it, lets his mouth hang open and inviting. He wants Nick badly he’s almost shaking with it. It would take so little effort to make this happen, just a slight movement forward and then the warmth of his mouth —

“YOUTHS!” shrieks the Victorian portrait shrilly, “Swoodilipooping in the corridors, this is absolutely unheard of!” 

The moment shatters. Moments keep shattering with Nick and Harry; it’s highly disappointing and possibly evidence supporting Nick’s complaints that he is cursed. Or maybe it’s Harry that is cursed, and Nick is getting unfortunate curse proximity bleed. 

“Fuck,” says Nick, sort of laughing, sort of panting. He drops Harry’s hands and steps back like he’s been burnt. Vaguely, Harry blames the ashwinders. Maybe the fiendfyre. 

“I should not be subjected to such behaviour,” sniffs the Victorian portrait. “You both deserve the pillory. I should have words with the Headmistress.” 

“Sorry,” says Harry. He’s not sure who he’s apologising to. The portrait? Nick? His frustrated hormones? All of the above? 

Nick twists his hair up in one hand, wild-eyed and huffing an awkward laugh. “Portraits. Like chaperones of ye olden days. Lovely, just what we need. Only, apparently, _absolutely_ what we need.” Nick laughs again, desperately. “It’s fine, I should have learnt self control in school; that would have been excellent use of my time, none of this magic shiny bits wand-y business.” 

The Victorian witch looks offended and appeased, at the same time. Nick ignores her. 

“Well, Harold, there we have it, we all know the reason for your unicorn difficulties.” Nick claps Harry on the shoulder awkwardly, like he can only manage touching him for a split second. “We’ll have none of that here, haven’t the unicorns had enough grief in their horn-headed lives? C’mon now, we’re walking, quit your dawdling, Styles — not that, you know, I haven’t already seen the erumpent, read the scrying stones, occupied the occamy, etcetera!” Nick laughs maniacally, unlocking the door to his office.

Harry feels extremely disoriented, and he stumbles a little, trying to keep up. The plaque on the door says NICHOLAS GRIMSHAW, PROFESSOR OF DEFENCE AGAINST THE DARK FARTS. 

Presumably, it has been enchanted. 

Nick disappears into the recesses of his office. Harry can hear a great deal of clattering, and, above that, Nick’s voice, loud and overly bright. 

“Alright, Harold, peanut paste for you and then detention for me, not that I have detention, I’m overseeing detention, _you_ have detention, for all that drunken carousing you lot did with the pop music, only it’s not my detention, is it, I don’t remember who you have. I have your friend Liam and also some Hufflepuff with very unfortunate hair — it’s dreadful really, going to have to spend several hours staring at it and not saying anything  — here you are, lovely pot of obesity straight from foreign lands, just for you, go on, use your hands, that’s it — alright, sorted! Oh, yes, dark farts, that Matthew Fincham, I taught him everything he knows, I’m very proud. Must go, Harold, I hope you have a lovely strop, I really need to go now, professory things and such, goodbye!” 

Nick hurries along the corridor without locking up his office, leaving Harry stood in his doorway with a jar of sandwich spread, a great deal of confusion and the memory that he once was, at some point, in a bad mood. 

Harry does, actually, have detention. It’s with Professor Flitwick and Louis, and though Louis mocks him relentlessly the entire time they spend cleaning the trophy room, Harry can’t seem to drum up the means to mind. 

  — 

October passes suspiciously quickly, weeks flitting away in the alternating rush and relaxation of NEWT year. Depending on the day, Harry has either never had this much work, or this much free time, in all his years at Hogwarts.  

It’s almost Hallowe’en by the time Harry realises that doing one’s coursework is possibly something that is encouraged for NEWT preparations, which is disappointing but endurable. Harry would much rather hang around pestering people than sit staring at parchment for hours. He doesn’t mind it nearly as much as Louis. Harry is pretty sure Louis has not actually opened a textbook yet. Harry, on the other hand, works pretty hard and sacrifices plenty of valuable pestering time to his future careers plans. 

Accordingly, when Louis informs them that they all must forgo going into town for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend because Louis has ‘Plans’, Harry is a bit miffed. Hogsmeade was supposed to be his exciting study reward. Harry had Plans too. 

“It’s like the only weekend we get off,” objects Harry, knowing already that it’s futile. He tilts up from the floor where he’s sprawled in front of the common room fire to look plaintively at Louis. “I wanted to do Lumos Laser Tag with Nick.” 

Nick had invited Harry out with a big group — he had specified that at least three times, ‘big, massive group, loads of people’ —to do Lumos Laser Tag at the Ashwinder Arcade in Hogsmeade. Harry had mentioned that hadn’t played since last June and Nick had invited him along, since Nick’s group — ‘massive, massive group’ — was planning on going anyway.

Harry had been hoping that ‘massive, enormous group’ Lumos Laser Tag would lead, somehow, to ‘pairs only’ genital Quidditch. 

Genital Quidditch is actually a very strange and slightly disturbing image for his dick, now that Harry thinks about it. Harry’s dick doesn’t seem to mind. He still finds the thought arousing. 

Harry doesn’t know where the unicorns got off rejecting him last month because this year he has been downright monklike. Most of Harry’s regular sexual partners left school last year and his most recent sexual partner is a professor who gets hysterically chatty whenever Harry licks his lips too much in front of him. Basically, Hogwarts has been a boner nightmare. Harry hasn’t pulled since the Horny Hippogriff and it is a little bit making _him_ feel like a horny hippogriff. 

Louis has no sympathy for Harry’s neglected genitals. “You spend too much time with Grimmy, you swotrag. And professors in general. They all love you already, and it’s not like it’ll even help anything. Squid up to the Ministry examiners instead. _They’re_ the ones marking our NEWTs.” 

“How Slytherin of you,” says Zayn, not looking up from his Ancient Runes coursework. 

Louis thwacks Zayn over the head with a Transfiguration book. “Don’t say that even in _jest_ , Malik, or I’ll have to castrate you and feed your testicles to the Giant Squid.” 

Niall cracks up. “Nice one, Tommo,” he says, mid-snort, his face halfway into his Tarot cards. “Testicles to the Giant Squid, _classic_.” 

“Thanks,” says Louis, beaming for a minute before thwacking Zayn again, for good measure. 

“I think you can only do the indoor tag anyway in this season, Haz,” says Liam. He smooths out part of his parchment scroll, watching the letters rearrange in front of him. A foot and a half on mandrake care definitely stretches the capacity of Liam’s SpellQuik Quill. “Not as good, is it?” 

Liam is not wrong, the outdoor course _is_ highly superior, but Harry still thinks it would have been fun. 

“Still,” says Harry heavily, paging through his assigned Muggle Studies reading without seeing much more than the pictures. 

“Don’t pout, you child. It’s going to be brilliant. Grimmy can wait. _This_ cannot,” says Louis, eyes shining with fervent zealotry. A group of third-years shift further away from him, quietly. “After all, what is this year, everyone?” 

“2010,” says Zayn, head down. 

“Seventh year?” asks Liam, hopefully. 

“Year of the tiger,” suggests Niall, passing Harry his Tarot deck to shuffle.

“Grrr,” says Harry, just to be part of the conversation. 

Louis narrows his eyes at them, but Harry’s pretty sure he’s glad none of them got the right answer, because now he can do a speech. “No, lads. No. This year is _our_ year. The year of the Rogues, the year we —”

“I thought we were going with Godric’s Gang?” asks Zayn, blasé. 

“I liked the Five Points,” says Harry, “You know, like the Four-Point spell, but since there’s five of us?” 

“I’m still thinkin Quintuple Trouble,” says Niall. 

Liam switches his Herbology book out for his Potions one. “My vote is still on the Gremlins.” 

Louis scowls. “The name is _not_ the point, here, lads — _this_ is the year we leave our final signatures on these hallowed halls. _This_ is the year we curse our names into Hogwarts: A History. _This_ is the year we do our ultimate territorial piss on these formidable found —” 

“Tigers do territory pissin,” inserts Niall knowingly, laying out the seventh card of the Celtic Cross spread in front of Harry. “Learnt that in Care of Magical Creatures.” 

“Tigers aren’t magical creatures,” says Zayn.

“Says you,” says Niall. 

“We could be the Gruff Indoors,” says Harry. 

Louis scowls, his rhythm interrupted, and then gives up. “Fuck you guys. Basically, Slytherin fucking trounced us and I’m not bloody having it. We play those dicktwists in a matter of _weeks_ and I’m not going into the match letting them think that they had the last word.” 

Liam leaves an inkblot the size and shape of a puffskein on his Herbology essay. “Oh, _goodness me_ , Louis, _someone_ must stop you,” he says, breathlessly. 

Harry flops over again so that his head is pillowed on Niall’s thigh, reluctantly accepting the death of his dreams of Lumos Laser Tag with Nick and Finchy and the rest of the young teachers and a score of their mates. Their friends are all probably really cool. 

Harry hopes that Nick finds all of them sexually unappealing and physically repugnant. Harry’s not sure he can stomach it if they aren’t. 

Niall nudges him, fanning the remainder of his Tarot deck in Harry’s face. Harry wiggles around so that he can see Niall start to turn over his cards. First up is the Fool, which just figures. The Fool shakes his patchwork baton at Harry, gambolling from foot to jingly foot. 

Zayn is not paying attention to the reveal of Harry’s tragic future. “Sick,” he tells Louis, grin lighting up his face. “Hey, I had a few ideas in lessons earlier, maybe we can float some.” 

“That’s the spirit, Zayner,” crows Louis, pumping his fist in the air. 

“Oh, that thing with the chairs’n shit?” asks Niall brightly. He hasn’t finished revealing Harry’s future, which makes Harry feel neglected. He forces his fingers under Niall’s jumper, searching for the ticklish spot on his ribs. Without looking down, Niall plugs Harry’s nose with deft fingers. 

Louis has taken advantage of their antics to filch Harry’s future off the carpet, mixing it in with the rest of Niall’s Tarot deck. 

“Ah, lads,” says Louis, ruffling through the cards. “Our fate awaits. A week from Saturday, we triumph. A week from Saturday, we go behind enemy wards. A week from Saturday, we live on in infamy.” With a flourish Louis picks a card and thwacks it down in the centre of the circle. 

It’s the wheel of fortune, the gold round revolving slowly in the picture. The brightly painted sphinx snarls, ominously. 

Harry’s pretty sure Niall doesn’t have to do another Tarot reading to see his future. Harry is fairly positive that his future is detention. 

 —

The Wednesday Hagrid takes them to the furthest field for graphorn observation is cold enough that Harry can see his breath, but it’s still a reprieve from the torrential rain that had pummelled Hogwarts all week. Care of Magical Creatures is not a class for the meteorologically sensitive. It is unfortunate, therefore, that it’s normally Harry’s favourite class. 

“It’s only October,” he tells Niall, as they make their way back towards the castle from their (long, freezing) lesson, shivering in their heavy coats. “We’re all going to die of frostbite by Christmas.” 

“Maybe _you_ ,” says Niall, unsympathetic to Harry’s imminent demise, “I’m not a weakling, though, so I’ll be alright. Dibs on your Frog cards.” 

“Those go to Zayn,” says Harry, immediately. He rubs his gloved hands together, cupping them over his nose for warmth. It should maybe trouble Harry that he is very sure about his final will and testament at his age, but Zayn really likes Chocolate Frog cards and Niall says Harry’s got a decent-sized lifeline so he doesn’t worry too much about it. 

“Eh,” says Niall, redoing his scarf, “Not if he dies of frostbite too.” 

Harry squints past Niall. There’s a tall, thin figure stood at the centre of the empty paddock that stretches half into the Forbidden Forest, holding a bucket of something and patting thin air. 

“You go on, Ni,” says Harry, already trotting away.  “I’ll catch up in a bit.” 

He ignores Niall’s grumbling until he can’t hear him anymore, and lopes up to lean rakishly against the paddock fence, stretching his legs out so they look even longer. “Hiya, stranger,” says Harry, flicking his eyebrows up and smirking. 

Nick turns, a look of almost guilty surprise flitting across his features so quickly Harry thinks he’s imagined it. In its place bursts Nick’s usual grin, lopsided and quirky. Nick drops whatever he’s holding back into his tin bucket, wipes his hands off on his long black coat and starts to walk back towards Harry. 

“I saw you not three hours ago, Styles,” he says, “When I was cleaning my classroom with absolutely no help from lazy, ungrateful teenagers.” 

Harry beams, knocking their shoulders together. “That sounds awful, Nicholas. Do tell me about that on our way up to the castle, where you’re going to lend me your radio for tonight.” 

“Am I, now?” asks Nick dubiously, but Harry knows he will. 

“Yes, you are. And you’ll be very gracious about it, too. The Magpies are playing the Harpies and Louis and I have a bet.” 

“Half of any winnings rightfully should belong to me, as the enabler of your disgraceful gambling addiction.” 

“So if I lose, that means you’ll spot me twenty sickles, right? As my enabler?” Nick flicks Harry’s ear and Harry protests, laughing. He glances at Nick’s other hand, looped through a bucket of what looks like bloody meat. “What’s that?” he asks, nudging Nick. 

Nick glances down at it. “I’ve turned to a life of butchery, Styles. Not for me the training of young minds; I’m only interested now in hacking the limbs of living creatures.” 

“Gross,” says Harry happily. They walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, Harry bumping up against Nick every few steps in the interest of preserving body heat. Nick wouldn’t want him to die of frostbite, after all. “So what is it you’re butchering?” 

“Just scraps from the kitchens,” says Nick as they climb the stairs to the entranceway. “The house elves don’t mind if I grab ‘em, for the thestrals, you know.” Nick coughs into one glove. “I hope you’re aware that I’m entrusting you with a priceless possession and you should be appropriately appreciative and delicate with its handling. Only wireless I have, that.” 

Nick has four radios at Hogwarts alone: one in his classroom, one in his office, and two in his rooms. 

“I can be _very_ appreciative,” says Harry, unable to resist. He crowds up against Nick, his hands darting into Nick’s wool pockets. He hooks his chin over Nick’s shoulder. “I can treat you with _very_ delicate handling.” Harry plays it a little over the top, in case Nick spooks. He does that a lot, lately.

Nick shakes him off, laughing. Harry thinks they are both ignoring the underlying tension very well. They deserve medals. They deserve prizes. Harry would like them to be sexy prizes, and sexy medals. He’s not sure if there are sexy medals, but he is very willing to find out. 

Once they make it past the doors Harry is no longer in danger of a very purpley sort of death, but he doesn’t stop invading Nick’s space. He could die of _post_ -frostbite, probably. Nick couldn’t possibly want him to die of post-frostbite. 

“We’ll miss you at Ashwinder, Harold. I have it on good intelligence that you are rubbish.” 

“ _Heyy_ ,” complains Harry toothlessly. “I’m brilliant, thanks.” 

“All the grace of an erumpent, all the dexterity of a lobalug. A champion of Lumos Laser Tag, is Styles.” 

Harry is pretty sure Nick didn’t used use so many creature references in his speech, which makes his chest go all _wingardium leviosa_. “I’m sorry to miss it too. But, y’know. Plans.” 

“Ooh, _plans,_ ” mocks Nick. “ _I_ see how it is. I used to have plans, you see. Never ended well. They ruin your life, do plans, beware.” 

There is a distinct possibility that Nick is right, actually. The date of Slytherin/Gryffindor Quidditch match is looming, and as it approaches Louis’s self-restraint recedes. The thing about Louis’s self-restraint receding is that it tends to take everyone else’s along with it, like tides. 

The corridors are sparsely populated, just a couple of Slytherins passing through. One of them shoots Harry a nasty look which he tries not to take personally. Harry makes a mental note to ask Louis what they’ve done this time. Or, actually, what they’re going to do, in just a little over a week.

—

Harry doesn’t want to know how Louis got the password to the Slytherin common room. Except, no, actually, he does, absolutely no question, Harry absolutely wants to know. 

The five of them are darting through the castle stealthily, clad entirely in black. It’s sort of a moot point because it’s daytime so black is still visible, and also Harry is really bad at stealth, and also it shouldn’t matter too much because every student over second year is in Hogsmeade having a good time. Every student, and most professors. Most professors, including Nick. 

Harry crowds up behind Louis as the other boy scopes around the corner of the corridor. “How’d you get the password to Slytherin, Lou?” 

“Move up, it’s clear,” says Louis in a voice he’s definitely cribbed off Knockturn Coppers. Louis waves them forward, and they continue their journey through the dungeons. 

Harry has to trot to keep up with Louis’s pace. “Lou, I said, how’d you get the password?” 

“Wiles,” says Louis mysteriously, in the same Wizarding Wireless Network actor voice. “I have lots of wiles.” 

“Zayn got off with a Slytherin sixth after the pickup Quidditch last Sunday,” says Niall. 

“You slag,” says Liam to Zayn, looking tremendously thrilled with himself for the insult. 

“Fuck off,” says Zayn to Liam, looking equally proud of Liam’s corruption. 

The entrance to the Slytherin common room is by far the lamest of all of the entrances to all of the common rooms, Harry’s pretty sure. Slytherins don’t get a saucy portrait or a mysterious avian or an ace location in the kitchens. There’s just a big stretch of unassuming stone wall between Dungeon 16 and Dungeon 18. And, these days, a swamp. 

“Alright, Zayn, do some Malik magic,” says Louis, like it’s the tagline to the latest wireless crime drama. 

“Malikgic,” jokes Harry, quietly. They ignore him. 

“Leonum conputrescent,” says Zayn. The wall creaks as it gives way to a stone door, which swings open. Harry can see a lot of low, green light. 

“Slytherin Common Room, huh?” says Harry, trying not to grin too much before he delivers his punchline, “Why don’t we just _slither in_?” 

Everyone groans in practised unison, except Niall, who snorts, and is therefore Harry’s favourite. It is always tragic, but he’s used to his dormmates’ lack of taste in humorous asides by now.  

Louis leads them inside. The Slytherin Common Room is cool where Gryffindor is warm, angular where Gryffindor is round. Green and white fairy lights have been strung all over the stone walls. They look a little incongruous fluttering next to the ostentatious decorations. 

“Oh, sick view,” says Zayn, impressed, walking over to get a better look at the giant window which gives the common room a look into the depths of the Great Lake. A dozen merpeople are having some kind of conference beyond the glass, thrusting their spears at each other. 

“If I get caught in here I will be _ruined_ ,” wails Liam, but he follows Zayn to the window eagerly. 

“Check it out, mermaid tits,” says Niall, coming up behind him. It looks like it cheers Liam up immediately. 

Louis seems extremely annoyed that anything at all worthy of examination can be found in the Slytherin common room, which Harry thinks is a bit rich as he knows Louis’s been in here before for recreational purposes. Harry hasn’t, but he’s been to Slytherin parties. Slytherin parties are terrifying, and also amazing. They can’t happen too frequently, though, otherwise there would probably be casualties. 

Abruptly, Harry realises that he hasn’t been invited to a Slytherin party since school started, which is unusual and also disappointing. 

“You lot! Shoo, small serpents!” Louis is literally shooing a group of round-faced first-years from their chairs like a pack of kneazles. “Avast, you lizards of the night!” 

Zayn takes a minute away from admiring the lake to shoot Louis a withering look. 

“Hey, do you guys think it’s weird that we haven’t been invited to anything by Slytherin, this year?” asks Harry, shuffling through some records that have been left by the fireplace.

“No, because we hate them and will vanquish their blood into the unhallowed ground,” says Louis immediately, peering down the staircases to the dorms, making sure the firsties have cleared out. “Now shut up and let’s do this. Wands out, boys.” 

They do this. Well, mostly Zayn and Louis do this, whilst Liam follows closely behind them bemoaning his fate and giving tips on how to vanish things properly. Niall is busy looking at merpeople, and Harry is busy making friends with some Slytherin student’s fat calico. Her collar says she’s called Butterbeer, which is really cute and makes Harry regret naming his cat Onion Crisp when he was ten. 

“Um, hello?” One of the round-faced firsties from earlier is peering from the doorway. “I kind of need my bag. Could I just come in for a minute to get it, please?” 

“If you don’t value your limbs and consciousness!” shouts Louis. He’s hung almost upside-down doing something to the chandelier. Harry thinks it’s probably better not to ask. He goes and gets her bag when Louis isn’t looking. Butterbeer gives a disappointed growl. Harry wonders if cats have houses, too. If they do, Butterbeer is probably a Slytherin. Or Louis. 

 — 

Harry goes straight from his life of crime to Nick’s rooms, still sort of smug and excited that he knows the location of Nick’s rooms in the first place. Harry had carted Nick’s wireless all the way to Slytherin for this express purpose, and he had done a great job lying to the lads that he had brought it along for musical accompaniment. WWN Beat is aces with vandalism, everyone knows that. 

“So, for richer or for poorer?” asks Nick, when he opens the door. He has his hand up on the doorframe, his shirt riding up. Harry does his best not to stare too obviously at the narrow patch of skin there. It is difficult as he needs to memorise it for the Patchwork of Nick’s Nudity. 

“Huh?” he asks, looking back up at Nick’s face. There was this sort of indent, between Nick’s belly and his hipbone. Harry had gotten a little sidetracked. Now he’s getting sidetracked again, because Nick is wearing glasses, which Harry has never seen him do before. Who allowed Nick to wear glasses? He looks even more offbeat fit and interesting. All Hufflepuffs are wrong; there is no justice in this or any world. 

“The match,” says Nick, lowering his arm and letting Harry into the room. Harry stares mournfully at the part of Nick’s torso that used to reveal joy and hopes and dreams and now is just shirt. “You and Louis had a bet on some sport thing. Lads, innit. Gryffindor. Lions and grievous injuries from gigantic floating boulders that want to murder you. Lovely, dream of a sporting event for children.” 

“Oh, yeah,” says Harry, handing over the wireless he was supposed to return a week ago. “I did. I had money on the Harpies over the Magpies, their Chasers’ strategy is sick.” 

Nick goes to set up the wireless on a little table by the window. Harry saw Nick’s rooms before, when he lent the wireless, but he didn’t have a lot of time to appreciate them. They’re nice, lots of colour, lots of things going on. 

“I used to have a friend who played for the Harpies,” says Nick, adjusting the radio dial. It crackles through to a news program that he skips, still searching. “Well, still do have a friend, haven’t dropped her in the night or anything, but she doesn’t play for the Harpies anymore. Had a whole score of infants and had to be cast aside like an aging hippogriff to pasture. Poor Gin, now she’s forced to write words on paper with her hand instead of hitting people with bats for thousands and thousands of galleons. Dreadful.” 

“Oh, cool,” says Harry, sort of distracted by his surroundings. He’s never been inside Nick’s rooms before. It’s a little overwhelming, going from the familiar corridors of Hogwarts to someplace that’s so quintessentially _Nick_ ’s. Harry has never really thought in-depth about professors living in Hogwarts. He knows most do, during school term, but the only professors Harry has visited at home are Hagrid, who has a cabin on the grounds, and Lou, who lives up in Hogsmeade with her family. He’s vaguely surprised, despite himself. It’s like a flat in a building in London, or someplace. Not like Hogwarts at all, really. 

Harry makes himself comfortable on Nick’s sofa, stretching out the length of it. Nick’s rooms smell good, like amber looks, or velvet feels. Harry wants to bury himself in this sofa, cart the pillows around so everywhere he goes can smell like this. 

“Aha, there we go,” says Nick, pleased. The intro music for Charms Over Notting Hill is on, cheerful and familiar. Harry is pretty sure Nick keeps the wireless on all of the time. No matter when Harry drops by to visit he can hear something playing. He wonders whether it’s because Nick is lonely, up here in Scotland. It seemed like he had a massive crowd of mates at the Horny Hippogriff, and up here there’s mostly just Finchy and the other young professors. And Harry. 

Harry wonders whether that’s why Nick lets him hang around so much. 

Harry wonders whether Nick leaves the wireless on at night, when he’s sleeping.

“How was Lumos Laser Tag?” asks Harry, flipping through some photographs from Nick’s floor. Ridiculous faces cavort through all of them, dancing and drinking and wearing large centaur costumes. He thinks he recognises some of the faces from the papers. 

“A roaring success, only I broke an ankle and Finchy threw out his elderly back. It was alright, though, we invited my friend who’s a Healer for that express purpose.” Nick finally finishes doing whatever he’s doing to the radio. Harry’s not sure what; it sounds pretty much the same as before. “Harold. Is the entire sofa truly necessary for your domination?” Nick slides his hands under Harry’s feet and transfers them onto the massive trunk that serves as his coffee table. Harry wonders if the trunk was Nick’s, when Nick was in school. It looks like a school sort of trunk. 

“I was being the British Empire,” says Harry, shifting over the minimum amount of space necessary. 

“Your face is the British Empire,” retorts Nick automatically, pulling a stack of papers into his lap. 

“I’ll British _your_ Empire,” says Harry, kicking him in the knee. “Oh, hey. That reminds me. Want to hear a joke?” Harry doesn’t wait for Nick to answer. “What do you call a dictator who bans all alcohol?” 

“Oliver Cromwell?” asks Nick, laughter at the corners of his mouth. Nick has a nice mouth. It’s really expressive.

“No, shut up, you’re ruining it. A dictator who bans all alcohol…” Harry waits for a minute, for effect. “A teetotalitarian!” He beams at Nick, proud of himself. He spent twenty minutes in Muggle Studies thinking that one up. 

Nick tries not to smile and fails. “You are a menace, Harold Artemesia Styles.” He hits Harry with a pillow, but Harry can tell it’s in an affectionate way. 

Maybe in a sexy way.

Can you hit someone with a pillow in a sexy way? Harry wants to find out, and, great, now he’s thinking about sex. He bites the skin around his thumbnail and reminds himself how Nick has startled animal ways and how Harry has been doing his best not to spook him and make him run away. Spooking has been happening a lot lately, whenever Harry thinks about sex when he’s too close to Nick and it sort of shows on his face. Harry often thinks about sex when he’s too close to Nick. It often sort of shows on his face.

Harry shifts in his seat, stealing Nick’s affectionate sex abuse throw pillow for his lap. “My name isn’t actually Harold, you know.” 

“Yeah, Harold, I figured,” says Nick. During the time when Harry was thinking about sex pillows and shirt mishaps Nick had started to mark essays with a hot pink quill. Nick uses a lot of exclamation points in his comments and draws little faces that express his feelings. It is number seven on Harry’s list of his top ten favourite things about Nick. 

Nick looks at Harry over the rim of his black glasses. Those glasses are going to make it into Harry’s list of his Top Ten Favourite Things About Nick because the list is a work in progress, and also there is no justice anywhere in the world. Harry is thankful for his lap sex pillow. 

“You’re one of Harry Potter’s many and sundry namesake tributes, right?” 

“Yeah,” says Harry. There are scads of Harrys his age, and half scads of Harriets. There are six Harrys in Gryffindor alone, and loads more in primary school right now, probably, remnants of the second time Harry Potter saved the world. 

“ _So_ weird,” says Nick, shaking his head. “You know, he was in fifth year when I started school. Bit of a twat, I thought, then. Used to shout a lot, also he didn’t know my name ever and kept calling me Nigel. Hair a bit like yours, though.” He ruffles Harry’s head fondly. “Eyes, too, but not as good.” 

Harry has seen pictures of Harry Potter in the paper. Harry Potter’s eyes are really bright green, the colour of new grass. “Really?” he asks, skeptically. 

“Really,” says Nick, “Trust me, Harold. I’m an expert. Yours are much nicer.” 

“Huh,” says Harry, pleased. He twists over and beams up at Nick from the sofa. 

Nick looks down at him, complicated things happening in his face. “Thought you’d like that. Eyes like sea glass. Awful. You know, I’ve always loathed you. Leave my sight.” 

Nick always gets really shirty with him when he’s especially pleased. Harry preens. He’s not sure what he did, but he should find out so he can do it again and Nick can make that face. 

 — 

Harry sneaks back to Gryffindor Tower late, at half eleven — “Playing it fast and loose with the system, Styles,” Nick had said before closing his door, “Wasn’t like that in my day, how do you know you’ve been misbehaving if you’re not afraid of getting shamed out house and home?” — and falls asleep in Niall’s bed, as it’s closest to the stairs. 

Harry wakes up the next morning to a howling wind and Niall’s feet inexplicably in his face. From the dormitory window Harry can see the Womping Willow thrashing grumpily against it, which he finds sort of adorable. He leaves Hubert on the windowsill, so he can look out at the view over the grounds. 

It’s one of those rare Sundays they can get Zayn to accompany them, and Harry’s focused on dodging the musical corridor and retelling (poorly) a story Nick told him last night about a friend of his who bought his sister a dragon egg by mistake. 

“So, like, Grim’s friend’s sister thinks it’s just a paperweight so she puts it on her desk but, er, the desk is sort of —”  Harry waves his hands, expressively — “Over a Floo? So there’s loads of fire? And dragon eggs need warmth to hatch — like, they’re really tricky about it actually, I’m pretty sure Nick’s friend must have bought a Swedish Short-Snout, they’re a bit better about fluctuating conditions — so, she’s left it there, right, and she goes to work one day and when she comes back, sort of, maybe 6 hours later or something, she comes home, and this dragon, it’s sort of hatched? On her desk?” 

Zayn squints at Harry through sleepy eyes. “In another world that’s probably a really interesting story,” he says. 

Harry makes a face and half tackles him, mostly for the excuse to mess up his hair. 

When they reach the Entrance Hall, their path the the Great Hall is abruptly cut off. A  group of upper year Slytherins, Eleanor at the centre, is standing in the wide doorway. Every single one of them has their arms crossed. They look like a really cross duelling club in a cross duelling club photograph. 

“Hiya, friends and enemies,” says Louis. Louis knows exactly why the Slytherins are there, and why they look so narked. Harry does too, which makes him feel a little awkward. Louis preens, obviously. Liam preens discreetly. Zayn preens somewhere in the middle. Niall and Harry are just stood there.

Eleanor’s face is slightly terrifying. The girl next to her, a sixth-year called Cathy Lufkin, who’s normally a sort of sweet, soft-spoken sort of person, is doing a pretty good impression of a centaur who’s just been challenged on their territory. It ranks up with the one time Harry met a chimaera as one of the most terrifying sights of his life.

Centaurs make Harry remember a really good joke he read off a Droobles Best wrapper last week, which makes him forget about being afraid of them. “Hey,” he says, slowly, smiling as he remembers the wording, “So, what d’you call a —”

“How did you arseholes get into our common room, shitdick?” interrupts Eleanor sharply. 

To her right, Cathy Lufkin decidedly does not look at Zayn. 

“That’s two insults in a sentence,” says Louis, “So I see I have come out champion of the Triwizard Tournament of our times.” 

“How did who get where? Common room?” asks Liam, wide-eyed, looking around the hall like the furniture is hidden behind the portraits. “What room? Where?”

“ _Our_ fucking common room, asshole,” says a seventh-year with swoopy hair called Bieber, who’s friends with Niall sometimes. Judging by his tone, now is not one of those sometimes. 

“Whatever could you mean!” says Liam, with the edge of a nervous giggle. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about, mate,” says Niall, “But I’m starvin like a manticore’s mum. Mind letting us through?” 

“Yes, actually, we do mind,” says a sixth-year called Bugg. “Where the fuck is our furniture?”

“Furniture? What furniture? You mean like tables? Ottomans?” asks Liam, his voice as high as it was in second year. 

“Ottomen,” says Harry, quietly. Niall snorts, which makes Harry beam. Finally, he has achieved acknowledgement for his stunning humour. 

The Slytherins don’t care for Harry’s wit. “And what the hell did you do the ceiling?” asks a seventh-year named Danielle, crossly. 

“Improved it,” says Louis, still smiling, but it’s a harsher one. A shark smile. 

Bugg the sixth-year takes a threatening step towards them, pulling out his wand. “You lot are out of control, alright, that’s _our_ common room. You’re not allowed in there. Outside it, fine, do your stupid swamp, but inside is _our shit._ ” 

“ _Was_ your shit,” says Louis, archly. Harry is stood behind him and can see that Louis has his hand on his wand and his grip is tightening. 

“You lost us like fifty points with your little musical stunt, Bugg,” says Zayn tightly, “And about a hundred detentions. We haven’t cost you anything but a little discomfort, so I don’t see where you get to go off.” 

“If you idiots hadn’t been so stupid so as to try to get into your common room at four in the morning off your faces wasted on the finest in bottom shelf liquor you wouldn’t have lost shit,” says Eleanor, flatly. “Don’t put that on us.” 

“You dicks deserve more than 105 detentions for this,” says a seventh-year called Calum. Calum is in Care of Magical Creatures with Harry and normally they get on, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. Calum has his wand out and he’s getting right up in Zayn’s face. 

“It’s your fucking fault it happened,” says Zayn, yanking his wand out too. 

“You lads need to step back,” says Liam sharply, drawing his wand as well and squaring his shoulders. 

Harry really does not like where this is going. Gryffindors are supposed to be good at conflict but Harry’s not, he never has been. He gets out of situations by being sweet and charming and smiling pretty. He doesn’t think that’ll work right now. 

“Lads, ladies, let’s take a breather, yeah?” says Niall, hands open and stretched out. Harry recognises the tactic from Care of Magical Creatures. It’s good Niall’s trying to do something. The only thing Harry can come up with is ‘please try not to hex Zayn’s face.’

Niall’s tactics work on jarveys but they don’t seem to work on Slytherins. Or Gryffindors, for that matter. Louis is gripping his wand hard enough that his knuckles are white. 

Matt Fincham’s clear voice cuts through the tension swiftly, like a wire through clay, and Harry nearly collapses with relief. “Oh, hello,” he says, deliberately light, “What do we have here?” Finchy, Nick and Professor Longbottom are standing by the east corridor, carefully casual, and Harry hasn’t been this grateful to see anyone since Hagrid got him out of that situation with the chimaera. 

“Could everyone put their wands away, please?” asks Professor Longbottom. It really isn't a question. Everyone puts their wands away. Neville Longbottom has his own Chocolate Frog card for killing things and saving the world. Zayn has it in his collection book. “Thank you. Now, could anyone tell me what’s going on?” 

Harry hangs behind Liam, darting a glance at Nick, who hasn’t said anything yet. Nick’s mouth doesn’t have a laugh in its corners, right now. It’s disheartening. 

“ _They_ ,” says Bieber petulantly, “Messed with our common room. Took all the furniture out and now our ceiling hails every fifteen minutes.” 

“We did not! Anyway, _you_ gave us all inner ear damage with pop music!” Louis is highly affronted, his voice going high. 

“You put a _swamp_ in our _entranceway_!” protests another Slytherin sixth-year, Luke.

“ _You_ put bulbadox powder in my Quidditch robes!” 

“Like _three years ago_!” 

Neville clears his throat, which silences everyone. Louis folds his arms, still glaring at the Slytherins. The Slytherins glare back. Hidden down by his side, Zayn’s knuckles are white. He hasn’t stopped clenching his wand. Liam still has his fingers on his own, as well. 

Harry really doesn’t like it here. He wants to leave the hall. There’s been a lot of shouting and he feels uncomfortable and awkward. Plus, Nick looks all weird, and it’s hurting Harry’s insides. 

“It sounds like everyone has had a hand in this fight, to me,” says Neville, evenly. “I think fifteen points each from both houses for attempted duelling in the corridors should take care of this.” 

“ _What_?” Eleanor is affronted. “ _They_ were the ones in our common room.” 

“I understand that you feel that way,” says Neville calmly, “But without proof I’m afraid I can’t just dole out punishment.” 

“You _would_ say that,” spits Bugg with disgust, “You’re all _Gryffindors_. You don’t get it.” 

“Actually,” says Finchy, raising a hand halfway, managing to look both amused and authoritative at the same time, “I’m a Ravenclaw.” 

“And what a glorious Ravenclaw you were, too,” says Nick, cheerily, coming up behind Finchy to sling an arm over his shoulders. It sounds a little forced but Harry’s just happy he’s talking. “All bespectacled and library-bound.” It’s like Nick’s trying to divert the conversation. Judging by Zayn’s slackening grip on his wand, it seems like it’s working. 

“Personally,” says Nick, “I think you’ll feel loads better about your very sad common room once you’ve had a bit of egg and a toast, hm?” 

“Cheers,” says Niall, “Let’s all calm our tits and get some food in. I could eat the Giant Squid right about now, probably.” He grins and walks past the Slytherins like it’s a normal morning. Niall’s never bothered by this stuff. Harry figures it’s probably because Niall can see the future. 

Bugg glares, but does as he’s told. The rest of the Slytherins trickle through as well, heading in tense groups to their table.

Professor Longbottom walks in with Liam, smiling and talking in a low voice. Liam is going pink and red around the collar of his jumper. Liam also has Professor Longbottom’s Chocolate Frog card. Liam also has the limited edition. 

Harry suspects that Professor Longbottom is sort of diabolical, really. 

Harry hangs back to walk with Nick and Finchy. 

“Hullo, Harry,” says Finchy warmly. “Lovely show, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, eventful,” says Harry, for wont of anything better to contribute. He darts a glance at Nick, who still looks a little tense. He wants to put an arm around his waist, a bit. Just lean into him. He looks like he could use it and Harry could _certainly_ use it. Harry’s feeling really anxious, like his intestines have turned to runespoors and are slithering round his stomach. He settles for bumping up against Nick’s shoulder. Nick smiles at him, so it must help a bit. 

“Oh, Grimmy?” A Ravenclaw fifth-year stands from her table when they walk past. “I just had a question about the essay for next week. Is now a good time?” 

Nick’s eyes slide to Harry, almost imperceptibly, but he refocuses. “I’ll catch up,” he tells them, before doubling back. Harry watches after him, just for a minute. 

“So, I assume the rumours are true?” asks Finchy, pointedly ignoring the force of Harry’s errant gaze. Harry hopes. 

“Um,” says Harry, eloquently.

“The common room?” Finchy raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, right,” says Harry immediately, shoulders going down from around his ears. “Um. No comment?” Harry can’t help but smirk a little. He hadn’t liked how the Slytherins had reacted, but the common room really had been pretty funny. 

Fincham laughs. “Just like the olden days, this.” 

Harry stands up straighter, excited. He had decided to forgo pestering other people about Nick ages ago in favour of pestering _Nick_ about Nick, but information was information. 

“Oh?” he asks, a little too eagerly. 

Finchy nods, with this grin that reminds him a little of Louis’s. “Oh yes. Our Nicholas fancied himself quite the rebel when we were thirteen. Went around doing graffiti and signed it with a black dog. Very witty, is Grimshaw. No one could guess that one. The Grim, all over walls everywhere. That’s how he got his nickname, you know.” 

Harry looks back at Nick, who is chatting easily with the Ravenclaw girl like nothing had happened earlier. Harry pictures him doing graffiti at night on corridor walls, and then wishes he hadn’t, because it is a highly distracting image. Nick trots back over to them. 

“What’s he been telling you?” he asks immediately, squinting suspiciously at Finchy. 

“Oh, I’ve just been telling young Harry about the time you charmed your hair blonde, do you remember?” 

“Lies,” says Nick shirtily, “All lies. And anyway, Fincham, you are one to talk about phases as you fancied that topless centaur off Divination. Pervert.” 

“You can’t _say_ that,” protests Finchy, affronted, “I did not! I didn’t, Harry. He’s being ridiculous.” 

Nick beams angelically at the rainy ceiling. “Fincham talked about him _all the time_. He wanted to mount that steed, if you know what I mean. Tickle that trebo. Ride that ramora.” 

Finchy is bright red around the ears. “Oh my god, Nicholas, first of all, I didn’t at _all,_ and secondly, we’re in our workplace for Merlin’s sake, _stop it_.” 

“All the more reason to warn everyone about you. Or, actually, you know, my friend who used to work in the Department for the Regulation and Whatnot of Magical Beasts and Things? I could get in touch with her, get a good word in for you with the hoove-y types.” 

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” says Matt. It’s muffled, as Matt has his head in his hands. 

“Hey, hey, Nick,” says Harry, slowly.

“I should send her an owl this morning. Matt Fincham would love to take your finest in furry friends out to Madame Puddifoot’s, be sure to pass it along.” 

“Hey, Nick,” Harry repeats, knocking his foot against Nick’s boot. Nick pauses in his cheerful torment of Fincham and turns towards him. 

Harry grins up at him, preemptively proud of himself. “What d’you call a centaur who can swing through the jungle?” Harry pauses, for effect. “A centaurzan!” 

Finchy groans. Nick groans but also cackles — number four on Harry’s Top Ten Favourite Things About Nick —and immediately integrates it into his narrative of Finchy’s upcoming centaur date, so Harry counts it as a success. 

Nick and Finchy head towards the staff table and Harry doubles reluctantly back for Gryffindor. Liam is cracking his knuckles by the blueberry muffins. Meanwhile, Zayn glares off into the distance — the distance, upon further reflection, is the Slytherin table — and Niall explains how Louis’s tea leaves predict how Gryffindor Quidditch is going to annihilate Slytherin in the match. Harry clambers onto the bench between Liam and a redheaded fourth-year, and reaches for a muffin that will comfort him in this time of trial. 

Really, Niall is quite specific in _how_ Gryffindor will be going about doing this annihilation. Harry didn’t know that they taught you how to read ‘petrified colon’ from tea leaves in Divination, but apparently, it’s possible to find. So is ‘splatter of blood on the goalposts’ and ‘Bludger the Keeper’s shoulder into his arse’. Harry learns something new every day, at Hogwarts. After a half hour, Harry eats three comfort muffins and a soothing almond pastry, and has promised to carry a banner of a lion mauling a snake at the match. When they leave for Gryffindor Tower, Harry takes another comfort muffin, just in case. 


	5. Harry Styles and the Goblet of Firewhiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one transfigures anyone into a polecat (sadly), pub loos lead only to terrors, and Harry learns that his inner soul spirit spirit is mostly white mist, which is disappointing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jk rowling has cursed me. have nearly 11k of banter and nonsense. thanks again to bee for taking my long emails and giving long emails in return, my housemate for texting me harry potter chat up lines at 4 am, and everyone who's been lovely and enthusiastic about this weird little (...not so little) fic.

The day of the long-awaited Quidditch Massacre of 2010 dawns bright and bracing, not a cloud in sight. Harry would not put it past Louis to have terrified even the weather into submission. He’s had the Gryffindor Quidditch team practicing six times a week in heavy rain and sleet and even Liam, who frequently jogs _for fun_ _on a Saturday_ , has been looking quite worn out. He’s not the only one. All November palpable tension has crackled through the castle, making everyone jumpy and tense. Or, more accurately, making Slytherins and Gryffindors tense. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws seem happy enough, spending most of their time alternating between taking the piss and going about their lives. 

At the Gryffindor violence table of gory imagery and glaring, Harry has been spending his time wondering whether he would make a good Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff.

It’s probably beautiful there. Niall says the Hufflepuffs have snacks. 

After breakfast, Harry, Zayn, Niall and the entirety of the Gryffindor Quidditch team depart for the Quidditch Pitch and the judgment and reckoning that will therein be found. At the stands Niall adjoins to receive his annual stern lecture from Matt Fincham in the commentator’s box and the rest of them adjoin to the changing room to receive their multi-annual stern lecture from Louis Tomlinson. 

“According to Quidditch Through the Ages — the greatest book of all time, frankly the only book worth _reading_ — there are 400 known ways to commit a foul,” begins Louis, cracking his knuckles through his protective gloves.

Louis has taken notes for this speech. Copious notes. Harry has seen them. Most of the notes are stick figures bludgeoning other stick figures with clubs. Sometimes, they use poles.

“They were all successfully committed in the World Cup of 1473. Transylvania transfigured one of Flanders’s chasers into a _polecat_. The Transylvanian captain had vampire bats _under his robes_. They lit a Chaser’s broom _on fire_. Those teams, lads —” Leigh-Anne clears her throat, fairly threateningly as she’s holding her Beater’s bat. “—Those teams, _people_ , should be _your inspiration_.” 

“Er,” says Harry from where he’s sat behind the team with Zayn, holding the edge of a sheet for Zayn to enchant. “Isn’t that sort of, uh, dangerous? And against the rules? And dangerous?” 

“It’s Slytherin,” says Louis like he’s saying an empirical fact, ‘dragons are large’ or ‘rain is wet’ or ‘Harry can’t play Quidditch he shouldn’t be entrusted with his own limbs let alone a flying object’. “They’re going to try it anyway. We should try it _better_.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry, but no one is contracting Louis’s claim. Actually, most of the team is nodding. Perrie’s jaw is set tight, fierce. Leigh-Anne cracks her bat against her palm. 

“And if we win this one Gryffindor moves up from last place in the House Cup,” says Liam importantly, “Which should be a priority too.” 

Harry is fairly sure that the 150 points from a Quidditch win would be negated twice over by the after-party of the game that won them — in fact, he knows this, as they have been every single time — but he doesn’t say anything. 

Louis is nodding, cracking his Beater’s bat against a thigh. “We’re going to go out there and take no prisoners. Push ‘em all off the plank. Or, actually, we _will_ take prisoners, because we’re going to burn and pillage and then take all the people we want to do writing and stuff for us back to our Viking lands, because we’re fucking _brilliant_.” 

“More the Mongols, actually,” says Zayn, putting the finishing touches on the banner. 

“Today we play by _Viking rules_. Liam, I don’t care what you do — you flack if you have to, you cobb if you get the chance —but if you let a Quaffle in I will hang you from a tree and you’ll _never_ get to go to Viking heaven.”

Liam seems to take this very seriously. He nods with squinted, determined eyes and fastens his gear more securely, like he’s going into battle. 

“Jade, you get that fucking snitch. You fucking catch it. You fucking _own_ it; it’s the gold at the end of the shiny beribboned rainbow that is your life. Get your hand on that snitch or _die trying_.” 

Harry wants to make a pun, but it’s a sort of rude pun, so he holds back. 

“This is my last game against these twatrockets. Don’t worry about the Bludgers, Pinnock and I will have your backs. We can do this. We are the heroes. We are the conquerers We are the _Vikings_. We are the Order of the _Phoenix._ We bring the sunrise, we conquer the foreign lands, we light the eternal flame, we —” 

Louis has used the word ‘twatrocket’, so Harry figures his rude pun may be in the clear.

“Lou wants Jade to get her hand on that snatch,” says Harry, very quietly to Zayn. Zayn snickers and flicks him on the ear. 

“ — bring the fist of the thunder god, we rip out the spleens of our enemies, we blow up the bladders of our slain foes and use them as more Bludgers to beat them with, we —” 

“Styles?” Professor Longbottom is standing in the doorway to the changing rooms, wearing a jumper with a massive lion on. “Malik? What are you two doing here? Team only, please, go on, out to the stands.” 

“— _crucio_ the _souls_ of our rivals, we don’t ride brooms we ride _dragons_ , we use the elbow bones of our rivals to cut out their tongues and _feed_ them _to_ our broomdragons, we —” 

Zayn and Harry gather up their banners and do as they’re told, exiting into the cold air to the strains of Louis’s increasingly violent encouragement. Apparently, the Gryffindor Quidditch team is to Quidditch teams as Spartan wizards were to childcare. Harry had thought Louis had been asleep through most of History of Magic, but clearly Binns burrowed into his twisted dreams. 

“Hiya, Zayn, Harry,” says Nick, coming up behind them, “You on your ways up to watch the show?” Harry’s throat does this pleased boa constrictor thing that it’s been doing lately, when Nick is around. Nick is wearing a massive, ancient Gryffindor jumper. The lion looks like it has spattergroit. Harry devises a plan to steal it on the spot. 

“Wotcher, Grimmy,” says Zayn, scrambling to vanish the cigarette he had just lit. He’s shit at it. Because Nick is great, Nick pretends not to notice. Or possibly because Nick doesn’t care. Or possibly because Nick hates having to take points from Gryffindor because he and Matt Fincham have a bet on.

Harry kicks Zayn in the shin, because someone should. “Yup,” says Harry, tingly all over. He looks up at Nick, letting that feeling fill him up. “You wanna walk with us?” 

“Might do,” says Nick, grinning off into the distance as they start up the stairs to the stands. 

“I’ve got to go get these to everyone.” Zayn motions to the banners in his hands. “Catch you two later.” Zayn gives them both a nod — and Harry a slap to the bum — and then takes off up the stairs two at a time.  

Even after he’s left Nick smells like Zayn, actually, which makes Harry squint at him. “Cigarettes, Grimshaw? Shouldn’t you be setting a good example or summat?” 

“Fuck off,” says Nick, laughing, “I’m stressed, alright, I have to be all sporty and mannish. And I’ve put hard-earned knuts on this murder game. Lads, innit. Nice banner, by the way. Subtle.” 

Harry looks at the sheet in his hands where a lion is eviscerating a snake, pulling bits of skin off with its teeth. There’s rather a lot of blood and guts for such a narrow animal, actually, he probably should have warned Zayn. “Cheers,” he says, “Zayn did it. Why are you stressed? Don’t you like Quidditch?” 

Nick files into a row, taking a seat and propping his feet up on the railing. “Never got into it, really, if I’m honest. Lots of bangy-bangy smashy-smashy go hospy-hospy. My whole family loves it, though, they’re proper obsessed. And yet, here I am, because I’m pretty sure our illustrious Headmistress would happily make nonattendance a fireable offence. Neville and I are the only Gryffindor professors, and she’s supposed to be ‘neutral’.” Nick makes air quotes. 

Across the stands, Headmistress McGonagall is stealthily hiding her Gryffindor scarf in her coat. 

“You know,” says Nick thoughtfully, leaning out and surveying the ground below, where Paul, who does Flying and referees, is setting out the equipment. “First match I saw here, after the game the teams went at each other like kneazles in heat. Incredible. Legend. Just started Muggle duelling right out on the grass. Two of them got banned from Quidditch for life. Their brooms got chained up and everything. Massive drama.” 

Harry squints at Nick, confused. “Muggle duelling?” 

Nick seems confused that Harry is confused. Indulgently, like he’s talking to Lux, he puts his hands up and curls them into fists. “Y’know, like. Movin’ around.” He punches the air, demonstrating. 

Harry just stares at him. “Nicholas. That’s fighting. That’s just fighting; that’s not just Muggles.” 

Nick seems affronted. “No, it’s Muggle duelling, innit? That’s what it’s called!” 

It is clear to Harry now that Nick was raised by hippogriffs, or something. Hippogriffs in a bubble. A magic bubble. He is to be pitied. Hippogriffs would be terrible at infant care. “Nicholas. How do you not have _any_ understanding of Muggles?”

“I have loads of understanding of Muggles! Have my own telly, even, in London, you know. Tiny people in a box just for me.” Nick looks very proud of his tiny box people. Harry feels very confused about his life. 

“Grim, you know… You know those aren’t actually people in there, right? It’s a projection.” 

Nick shrugs, unconcerned. “Can’t be bothered, Harold. They sing and they dance and they do strange things with metal objects, downright kinky really, don’t mind your insulting their personhood.” 

“Metal… objects?” 

Nick makes another gesture, this one involving a lot of finger wiggling. “Y’know. Objects!” He beams at  Harry, seemingly very proud of his Muggle mastery. 

“… Computers? Is that what you mean?”

“Sometimes it’s a fellytone,” says Nick wisely. He taps the side of his nose. “Fancy, fancy metal. Very up to date on these things, I am.” 

Harry blinks. It is the only bodily function his brain can manage in this state. “Nicholas. You don’t know what a _computer_ is? I have heard you use the word ‘lol’ in conversation. Not even written down; you have literally said ‘lol’.” 

“Don’t see what that has to do with Muggle duelling, Harold, you’ve lost the plot a bit I think.” 

Harry does not point out that Nick brought all this on himself with his tiny telly people tangent, because Harry deserves canonisation and also a biscuit. And sex medals. And sex. “Nick. Nicholas. Lol is a Muggle thing. It’s L-O-L. It stands for laugh out loud, and people use it on the computer. On the internet.” 

Nick makes a face. “Get off it, Harry, it’s just another word for laugh. What does that have to do with your nettywhatsit?” 

Harry puts his head in his hands. This must be how Zayn feels, he thinks, vaguely. He should not also be this endeared. “This is embarrassing. We’re going to have to do something about this, Grim.” 

“ _Why_? You are not making any sense, Styles. You learn too much in that class of yours. It’s rotting your brain. I should have a word with Lou, she’s working you too hard. This is why I don’t teach you people anything, your brains are just fluff and circumstance, they can’t handle the truth.” 

Harry laughs and pats Nick on top of his tall, windswept hair. “You’re mental, and it’s not just Lou, my dad’s a Muggle, actually, thought I’d mentioned that — oh, hold on.” The two teams have come onto the pitch. Louis and Danielle break ranks to stand by Paul, staring each other down. Even from ten metresup, Harry can feel the force of their glares.  

“No, you said your dad worked for the Ministry,” says Nick, not bothering to observe the interaction. 

“Step-dad,” corrects Harry, “And shh, I’m trying to watch.” 

Nick settles back in his seat with an air of long-suffering patience, which is ludicrous, as Nick is one of the least patient people Harry has ever met and one of Harry’s best friends is Louis. 

“Captains, shake hands,” says Paul, looking pointedly at Louis, “I want a nice, _clean_ game from both of you.” 

Harry winces, a little. 

At the sharp blast of Paul’s whistle, the twelve players shoot off the ground and into the sky. Liam barrels towards the goalposts like there are Dementors after him. 

“And they’re off!” Niall’s voice rings through the stands, bright and excited. “It’s Danielle Peazer of Slytherin with the Quaffle, lookin’ _good_ Danielle — Sorry, Finchy, I meant that in a Quidditch way, nice form — haha, form — oh, and it’s Pinnock and Tomlinson on her tail, don’t have to be a Seer to know where this is headed — _ouch_ — yep, was right about that one, 5 points to Niall, nasty Bludger to the head for Peazer — sick one, Tommo—”

“Remember our talk about biases, Niall?” warns Matt Fincham faintly in the background. 

“Sorry, Finchy— and she drops the Quaffle which is quickly snatched up by Keeper Eleanor Calder of Slytherin, nice pass to Bieber and they’re heading towards the Gryffindor goalposts, looking to score — JESUS FUCK, NICE ONE — I mean, brilliant save by Liam Payne, there, hero amongst men — er, great player, anyone can see that —” 

Down the line, Jesy and a few other Gryffindors start up a chant of “Your Quidditch, your Quidditch, your Quidditch is fucking shite!” Across the pitch, the Slytherins have started up their own chant that seems to involve lions, and shoving said lions up Gryffindor arses. 

“Loving the traditional impartial commentary,” says Nick, wincing as a Bludger swoops in their direction. Nick has ducked every time a Bludger has come within nine metres of their seats. 

“Uh-huh,” says Harry, gripping the rail of the stands and following the Quaffle’s progress with eager eyes. Louis is on a _rampage_ , knocking the Bludgers towards players with deadly aim. “Here, hold this.” Without taking his eyes off the action, Harry passes Nick the banner. 

Nick stares down at the snarling lion bemusedly. “And what am I supposed to do with this, then? Conduct a lesson in intestine-ripping?” 

“You could hold it up,” says Harry. Liam saves a Quaffle with the edge of his foot, kicking it halfway down the pitch where Perrie snatches it out of thin air and barrels ahead. “Maybe cheer a bit, dunno — YES! FUCK YEAH!” Harry pumps his fist in the air, wildly. 

“— YES, take THAT you cunts! — Oh, shit, sorry Finchy — And that’s a goal from Perrie Edwards! So that’s 10 to Gryffindor, and we’re 10 − 0 now — Edwards has the Quaffle —” 

Hesitantly, Nick holds up the sign. 

— 

All counted the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams commit 107 fouls — sadly, no one turns anybody into a polecat — and Gryffindor beats Slytherin 350-210. In a heart-clenching finale, Jade narrowly knocks Slytherin’s Cher Lloyd out for the Snitch, and Niall, due to excessive profanity during the process, is banned from commentating again anytime in his Hogwarts lifetime, and possibly even beyond.

Harry nearly smothers Nick in elation, throwing his arms around his neck and crushing Zayn’s sign between them. The Gryffindor side of the stands is roaring with joy and the Slytherin side roaring with anger but all Harry can notice is the warmth of the skin at Nick’s throat, how he smells like skin and cigarettes and something he can’t quite place, something musky and familiar that goes straight to his dick. Nick’s skin is so warm against Harry’s nose and mouth. He bites; he can’t help himself. 

“Oi, savage,” laughs Nick, but he sounds a little breathless, “Teeth to yourself, please.” 

Harry spots Zayn further down in the stands, jumping on his seat with Ant and Danny Riach. 

“Can’t help it, and I’ll be right back, hold on —” Harry takes off towards Zayn, intent on celebration tackles. Harry has found that Gryffindor friendship in times of joy is expressed primarily through manifestations of violent physical affection. Behind Harry, Neville Longbottom barrels up to Nick and thumps his back wildly, roaring. Godric Gryffindor must have been one rowdy son of a bitch. 

Harry doesn’t come right back. He gets swept up in the Gryffindor hysteria, all the way to the common room where everyone is shouting and setting off pep poppers and toasting the team. Louis rides Liam’s shoulders all around Gryffindor Tower, wearing a crown made of ice mice and Chocolate Frog cards. 

By midnight all the seventh-years are a little tipsy and decide that it’s time for clubbing. They leave everyone underage behind as they tumble through the secret passage behind the humpbacked witch to Hogsmeade, thanks to the generations of Gryffindors who have passed their sacred knowledge of secret booze passages along in the interest of keeping everyone all less sober and thus more sane. 

It is for these reasons, amongst many others, that Gryffindor is forever destined to lose the House Cup.

Hogsmeade’s nightlife consists of the Three Broomsticks (too family-oriented), the Hog’s Head (too likely to end up on Knockturn Coppers) and the Billywig, which opened when Harry was in fourth year and has been the only place of note ever since. Most of the time the Billywig is a pub, but after eleven the owners clear out most of the tables for dancing and dim the lights, which is exactly like clubbing for Hogsmeade. 

The Gryffindors fall all over each other as they make their way through the town, passing closed shop after closed shop, singing dirty Quidditch chants and giggling.

“Everything is great,” says Harry, slurring only a teeny little bit. “Everything is so great. You guys are so great. You know who else is great? Grimmy. He’s so great. And Matt Fincham. Sorry he banned you from commentating, Niall. That’s shit. But he’s not shit, he’s great. He likes you too; he thinks you’re great. I think you’re great, too. And Quidditch, Quidditch is great.” 

“Is alcohol also great?” asks Niall, snickering and hanging off Harry’s shoulders. 

“Yes,” says Harry immediately, “It _is_ great though. Isn’t it great, though, guys?” 

“Massively!” says Perrie from where she’s clinging onto Zayn’s back, waving a victory flag in the air. Harry doesn’t know where she got the victory flag, but he’s pretty jealous. 

“Let’s get more great alcohol in the great Billywig,” says Leigh-Anne, and Perrie wonders aloud whether they’ll let her bring in her victory flag. 

The bouncer lets Perrie and her flag through, which is definitely great. The bouncer’s name is Egon. Harry knows this because he used to spend a lot of time trying to convince Egon into letting Harry into the Billywig before he was of age. Egon shakes his head at Harry when he gets to the front of the line, but he lets Harry pass after swiping his wand over his id card. Beyond Egon, the pub is dark and the music is loud, heavy bass. Charmed globes flash overhead, colours bleeding over the walls in spurts and splatters. 

The Billywig is definitely great, and within five minutes everyone around Harry has hands full of smoking green shots. Louis is still wearing his crown. Perrie has fashioned her flag into a toga. 

“Oooh, _shit_ ,” laughs Zayn, suddenly, his face half in Liam’s shoulder, “Check it out, lads.” He points across the dance-floor — not a shoddy turnout, for Saturday night in Hogsmeade — where a group of twenty-somethings are dancing with tall, flaming drinks in their hands. 

One of the twenty-somethings is Neville Longbottom, cavorting like a particularly uncoordinated hippogriff and inexplicably wearing a massive Gryffindor lion as a hat. Another of them is Nick. Thankfully, the music drowns out Harry’s sharp intake of breath. 

Harry can’t pay attention to anything anyone is saying. He’s watching Nick, who’s dancing with one arm up and laughing hysterically, clearly well into his night. _Fuck it,_ Harry thinks abruptly. _Fuck careful_. 

Harry waits like a nundu stalking its prey, only half engaging in conversation in favour of darting anxious glances across the room. Harry has read many nature studies. Harry knows how to wait carefully and silently until his prey leaves the safety of his pack, how to stalk quietly through the underbrush to pounce. Harry’s moment comes when Nick fights his way to the bar, leaving his friends dancing out on the floor. Harry mumbles something indistinct to the group and stalks quietly — well, doesn’t fall — through the crowd. Nick leans over the table to signal the bartender and Harry sidles up next to him, close and handsy. Nick is an antelope. Harry is the zebra of love. 

Or. Lion. Nundu. Whatever. 

“Is that a wand, or are you happy to see me?” asks Harry coyly, toying with the straw in his mouth. 

Nick looks down at him and blinks slowly, a slightly confused grin blooming on his weird interesting face. He seems really drunk. That’s okay, Harry’s drunk too. They can be drunk together. 

“It’s a wand,” Nick says, “But I’m also happy to see you. Probably.” He looks Harry up and down and Harry stretches himself out, making the most of his decidedly non-uniform attire. Harry knows what he looks like. He wants Nick to know too, and in the interest of this he pulls his lower lip into his mouth and lets it out through his teeth, nice and slow. 

Nick watches, silent. “Don’t do that,” he says, hoarsely. 

“Not doing anything,” says Harry, innocently. He puts the straw of his drink back in his mouth and looks up at Nick through his eyelashes. If Harry’s a nundu, Nick’s a niffler. Harry intends to be something shiny.

Twenty minutes later they’re locked in a stall in the toilets, hands up each others’ clothing and panting hot into each others’ mouths. 

Harry is the best nundu ever. 

“This is so —” Nick kisses him again, his mouth fierce and demanding, Harry arching up into him so that they press from every angle, “—so, _so_ stupid, this is such a bad idea.” 

Bad ideas and toilet stalls are sort of the area of expertise of Gryffindors, so Harry doesn’t see the problem. He forces his hands into the back of Nick’s skinny jeans, fingers tight against the flesh of his arse. “I don’t care,” he pants, biting Nick’s neck, dizzy from the smell of him and the Shortsnout Shooters he’s downed, “I really, really don’t care, Nick, _please._ ” 

“Fuck,” Nick says, yanking Harry’s hair until he can kiss him again, the edge of teeth in every press of his mouth. “Fuck, could you stop being so fucking hot, this is ridiculous, christ—” 

“Nick,” Harry whimpers as Nick sucks a bruise low on his collarbone, “Fuck, I want you, don’t stop, I —” 

Nick makes an undignified sound and rocks his hips against Harry’s. Harry growls a little, like his sexual frustration really has transfigured him into a nundu, or a horny hippogriff. Nick doesn’t seem to mind the cross-species romance; he’s clutching at Harry’s arse now, guiding him into position. 

The sound of the door opening doesn’t stop them from grinding against each other. Frankly, Harry really could not care less if the ghost of Albus Dumbledore himself were to be outside the door. He’s frantic with it, the feel of this, with the taste of Nick and the smell of him and the _months_ he’s spent being so fucking good and so fucking careful. Harry _hates_ being careful. He moves to thumb open Nick’s jeans, eager to feel the pulsing length of him in his hand, eager to touch him or taste him or whatever Nick wants, really, Harry doesn’t care at all so long as he has him, here. Right fucking now. 

“Grim?” 

Nick stills, abruptly, grabbing Harry’s hand to halt its progress. Harry bites Nick’s collarbone hard, in retribution, but Nick doesn’t react. Harry doesn’t recognise the voice, but clearly Nick does. 

“Grim, if that’s you being a slag in there, we’re heading to Pix’s for a bit so you should pull and part or come out, yeah? We’ll be outside if you’re coming. Matt says you’re not to Apparate, remember what happened last time.” 

The door closes. 

Immediately Nick steps away from Harry on shaky legs, running a hand over his guilty face. “Er,” he says, looking anywhere but at Harry. 

Harry wants to make a joke about whether Nick is ‘coming’, but Nick has this look on. Harry feels like shit. He feels like a Dementor just came into the loo to yell at Nick rather than some girl. He buttons his trousers, guiltily. He’s still hard. “What happened last time? With the Apparition?” he asks, striving for normal, trying to get Nick to stop looking so weird. 

Nick seems to shake whatever he’s feeling off off, or try to, which Harry’s noticed he does a lot. He buttons up his shirt, shaking his head and doing a little laugh like he’s releasing pressure in his chest. “I ended up in some Muggle’s back garden missing my trousers, two toenails and half a finger, because I’m a success as a human being. Their dog found me and was well displeased. It was a miracle I didn’t splinch myself worse.” Nick tilts his head at him, doing that short laugh again that doesn’t sound particularly joyful. “Never drink and Apparate, Harold.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” says Harry. He shoves hands firmly in his pockets so he won’t touch Nick anymore. Nick is really freaked out, Harry can tell. He’s doing his whole spooked animal thing, like an Abraxas about to run off. Harry’s sort of a shitty nundu. He went in for the kill and then kept his hands to himself.

Nick gives him a sort of weird, blurry look and then sighs. “Alright, Styles, let’s get out of here. I have to go drink until I forget my name now.” 

“Okay,” says Harry, miserably. He follows Nick out of the loo. 

—  

The week after the match is tense. Gryffindor is smug in victory and Slytherin bitter in defeat but all Harry can think about is how Nick can’t seem to look him in the eye, not even in class, not even in the corridors. Harry endures it as due course for his carnivorous nundu ways until he physically cannot take it anymore. 

When he gets back from Friday dinner at Lou’s — he’d cried for a bit on Lou’s shoulder and not even Lux could soothe his worries, which is unprecedented — the rest of his dormmates are sat in their usual spots around the common room fire. It’s comforting, but not enough to stop Harry’s stomach from churning. He throws himself tragically into Louis’s lap. Harry’s been doing that with whatever laps are available all week.

“What is _wrong_ with you, you muppet?” asks Louis, his sharp tone somewhat undercut by how softly he’s petting Harry’s hair. 

“Mmph,” says Harry, into his thigh. 

“He’s been like that all week,” notes Zayn. 

“Are you alright?” asks Louis, “Is anyone giving you shite?” Louis’s tone is suddenly hard as a _diamontis_ charm. “The Slytherins have been up it lately; if they’ve said anything to you I’ll —“

“’S not Slytherin,” says Harry, pathetically. 

“Then what?” asks Liam, reaching over Louis to pat Harry’s shoulder. It’s not a great angle but Harry will take it. He’ll take any coddling available at a time like this. He needs it. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” mumbles Harry. “I’ve had a fight with someone. Not a fight. Something.” 

“Three of swords,” says Niall wisely. “You got that last week in your reading. Told you, didn’t I. Expect piercings of the heart.” 

“Hearts suck,” says Harry, trying to keep his eyes from prickling. 

“Yep,” agrees Niall, “Probably should just petrify your heart to stone. Never gonna Apparate away from you, girl.” 

Harry throws one of Liam’s books at Niall without looking. 

“Whatever it is, mate, you should just face it,” says Zayn, “Better than worrying yourself sick.” 

“And driving us all mental.” 

“That too.” 

Harry lets Louis pet his hair for a while and considers this. Of all his dormmates, Zayn’s advice is probably the only one Harry trusts not to immediately get him jailed, detentioned or maimed. 

The lads go up to bed at eleven and Harry stays back, thinking about nundus and hippogriffs and how he’d heard this really funny story on Tuesday about a unicorn with loser’s lurgy and he’d really wanted to tell it to Nick. Zayn was probably right. Ignoring the problem wasn’t really working. Steeling himself for all piercings of the heart possibilities, Harry sneaks out of the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady’s warnings, to go up to Nick’s rooms. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says immediately, when Nick opens his door. “I’m really sorry, and I shouldn’t have done that, and you’re blaming yourself but honestly you were way more blaggered than me and I took advantage. It was my fault and I won’t do it again.”  

“Takes two to tarantella, Harold,” says Nick quietly. He looks very tired and sort of misplaced. 

“I know, I know it was both of our fault really, but you were really drunk and I started it; I made it happen. But that’s not the point, okay?”

“Oh?” says Nick, still quiet. 

Harry sets his jaw, firmly. “Yes. The point is, I don’t want to not talk to you. I miss you. It’s been all week and it’s not the same fucking with Lou’s classroom because she keeps it messy anyway. And _you_ miss me, I can tell, you get this forehead thing when you’re unhappy. So we have to stop being weird. I want to keep my promise and tell you about Muggle things because I think you’ll like them and I want to be friends again, please. Just friends, I promise.” 

Nick just blinks at him through his unfair glasses. He’s wearing that battered spattergroit lion Gryffindor jumper from the game and there are dark circles around his eyes. Perhaps Nick has caught spattergroit from his jumper. 

A woman with long blond hair floats up behind Nick, wearing what looks like a dress made entirely out of flutterbys. She peers over Nick’s shoulder at Harry, seemingly unsurprised to find a dishevelled teenager standing at the door at eleven at night. “Oh, I had wondered what the noise was. Hello, Grimmy’s friend. Grim, are you going to introduce me to your friend?” 

“Harold, Luna. Luna, Harold,” says Nick. Nick looks like he grabbed an old boot that he’s only now realised is actually a Portkey, and he has no idea where it’s going. 

“Hullo,” says Harry, lamely. “I like your dress.” 

“Thank you, Grimmy’s friend Harold. I like it too. I’m not sure what you did to Grim, but you sound very sorry. I hope you make up. He’s been very grumpy. We have to go now, though, Charms Over Notting Hill is about to start and we must find out whether Sandra’s baby is a vampire.” The flutterby woman — Luna — smiles and wanders back into the recesses of Nick’s rooms, her dress fluttering gently. 

“Well, you heard the girl,” says Nick, helplessly. “Vampire infants, you know. Pressing needs of the world.” 

Harry shifts in place. He didn’t expect anyone else to be in the room with Nick. He had sort of forgotten that Nick had friends who _didn’t_ spend all of their time in a giant nutso stone castle in the highlands of Scotland.

“Um,” says Harry, “Okay, but. No, actually, you know what? No. You’re going to come with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow. And I’m going to teach you about Muggle things. And we’re going to have fun and it’s going to be a laugh. Because I like you, and you like me, and we’re friends, and this does _not_ have to be weird. Stop freaking out.” Harry sets his face, determined. Nick looks like his unexpected Portkey has just dropped him somewhere he’s never been, but in a good way, like it took him to a nice place. Southern Spain, maybe, or Ibiza. 

“You should listen to your friend, Nicholas,” says Luna, her disembodied voice drifting from somewhere behind Nick. “He sounds very sure of himself.” 

Slowly, very slowly, like a first-year’s _lumos_ charm, the corners of Nick’s mouth twitch up. “Alright, Styles,” he says. “You’re on.” 

— 

On Monday Nick’s under-eye circles are, if anything, worse. He genuinely looks like he has seen death, fought it, and was so bitterly humiliated in defeat that death pitied him enough to let him live. Harry would be more worried if Nick weren’t also looking at him, right in the eyes.  

“ _Witchcraft_ ,” Nick accuses when Harry drops his things on a table, ten minutes early to Defence. “That WhoYube thing of yours. Recommended for you my left testicle, it’s fucking sorcery and I won’t be convinced otherwise, Harold.” 

Harry laughs. “I told you, mate, it’s maths. Like Arithmancy. It’s an algorithm.” 

“It’s _sorcery._ I was at Lou and Tom’s until five in the bloody morning with that hunk of enchanted devil metal and it _never stops_ , it can see into my mind, I never learned occlumancy. I haven’t slept at all. It’s a tricky lesson today and if I blow anyone up I blame you.” 

“It’s your own fault,” says Harry, messing with a dragon paperweight from Nick’s desk. It’s not as cute as Hubert, and Harry pulls Hubert from his pocket just to make sure. “I told you to pick a limit and stick to it.” 

“Self discipline,” says Nick ruefully, writing something on the board, “I was absent that day. Year. Life. Luna tells me that it’s wrackspurts, but what does she know, she once snogged a centaur. That Luna Lovegood — menace of Ravenclaw — between her and Fincham I get enough books on my birthday —”

Harry nearly drops the two dragons in shock. Nick’s paperweight is much nicer than Hubert; Hubert bites him. “Lovegood?” Harry asks, shakily, “That girl, from your room, that was Luna _Lovegood_?” 

Nick gives him a weird look. “Yes, Harold. That’s her name.” 

“Oh my god,” says Harry, his brain flooding with nerves, “I have read _all her papers_. She’s my favourite naturalist. I did two feet on her studies of Novia Scotian snorckacks for Care of Magical Creatures last year.” 

Nick tilts his head and examines him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You swot,” he says, sounding pleased, “I’ll introduce you sometime. She quite liked you, I think. Said you reminded her of the crowning ceremony of the Ninkadull eagle people. No bloody clue what she was on about, but sounds exciting.” 

Harry has read three books about the Ninkadull eagle people. “ _Brilliant_ ,” he says, fervently. 

Harry is busy controlling the basilisks that are his overexcited intestines when the rest of the class shuffles in, Zayn and Niall announcing their presence via a bum swat and a nipple twist, respectively. Nick stands awkwardly at the front of the class in a hoody Harry remembers Nick once spent half an hour worrying was not ‘adulty’ enough. 

Nick flicks his wand and the lights pulse, quieting the class. “Hiya, everybody. Today we’re on Patronuses. Patronii. Patronum. Never did Latin, no clue which. Not the point. The point is — big shiny happiness animals, drive all the big demon monsters away.” 

“Um, Grimmy?” Across the room Eleanor raises her hand. “Your curriculum said we’d be on Patronuses in March. It’s December.” 

Nick squints at her. “Ravenclaw, you are wearing an incorrectly coloured neckbrace.” 

“She doesn’t want to do Patronuses because she is the destroyer of happiness,” whispers Louis loud enough that several centaurs in the Forbidden Forest likely know of his Slytherin-induced depression. Eleanor does an array of gestures that communicate both ‘sodomy with your own distended spine’ and ‘Bat-Bogey hex to your bollocks’. 

Nick looks like he is torn between taking points and asking for pointers. 

“Er, alright. Yeah, soz, Eleanor. Was gonna save this for later as it’s pretty advanced NEWT magic, but I decided to move it up. You’re getting it in your exams for sure and it sometimes takes a while to get a hang of. Plus, those of you in for some thrilling heroics as a career absolutely need to have mastered a Patronus; they do that in opening interviews.” 

Eleanor looks appeased. Louis is busy trying to get her to look murderous again. It’s not that successful, as Eleanor is not paying attention. 

“So there are two major ways you use a Patronus, right. Any guesses?” 

Zayn raises a hand, lazily. It’s more of a pointer finger. “Fight off Dementors,” he says. 

“Yeah, that’s number one, no fun with the sucky-sucky of the soul and all that. No one likes a snog off a Dementor, definite damper on your day.” 

Harry snickers. “Dementors suck,” he says to Liam, “Get it? ‘Cos they… literally suck? Your soul?” He laughs again, smothering it in his shirt collar. 

“That was terrible,” says Louis flatly. 

“Dementors suck,” giggles Harry. He thinks he can probably do another pun that also involves sucking cock, but maybe he shouldn’t think about sucking cock in class when Nick is right there. With a cock of his own, lying in wait inside his jeans. A cock with whom Harry has promised to be just friends, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid and he regrets it. Harry examines the crotch of Nick’s trousers, devotedly.

“Harry. Harry. _Haz_.” Zayn is poking him repeatedly in the side. 

“Sorry, what?” asks Harry, jolting like he’s just been woken up. 

“Page 195,” says Zayn. 

“Oh,” says Harry, “What? Oh, right. Uh, what’s happening?” 

“Patronuses,” explains Zayn, with about as much patience as a kneazle has self-control, which is to say, not much. “Two ways to use ‘em. Second way, you can make ‘em talk, use ‘em to send confidential messages.” 

At the front of the classroom, Nick is drawing something on the board that looks like a diagram of a dick. 

It’s probably not really a dick. Harry is slightly distracted. 

“So like I said, the incantation’s _expecto patronum_ ,” says Nick, wiping chalk off on his (tight, very tight) trousers. “And it’s like a fun little personality test. I encourage everyone to bet one what you think you’ll have and then laugh at your friends when they guess they’ll get like a panther or summat and turn up with a hedgehog.” 

“ _Heyy_ ,” says Harry, pouting a little. A hedgehog Patronus sounds adorable. Nick shouldn’t talk shit about hedgehogs. 

Nick throws him a brief look of both extreme exasperation and extreme tenderness, like his mouth is confused about which direction to tilt. 

Nick writes something else on the board. “Also it can be awkward to have a really sick Patronus. I have this friend who has an elephant one; it’s a real distraction.” He turns back to the class, adjusting his unfair glasses because the universe is made to taunt Harry into an early horny hippogriff grave. 

“So there’s this weird bit in the book, which says if you’re not ‘ _pure of heart_ ’ the spell won’t work for you; it’ll just spew out maggots from your wand and the maggots will eat you alive. Which is hilarious, and I’m pretty sure inaccurate, but just in case, try not to be evil and have maggots eat you during my lesson, alright? Save that for your private time.” 

“Maggots,” says Louis with immense satisfaction, looking to where the cluster of Slytherins are sat across the room. 

Nick claps his hands together. “Right. We’ll start you off in a nice happy room with no scary bits and move you up as the year goes on. Most of you won’t manage much this round, mind, probably just a bit of misty mist that might grow ears or summat, or scales, no judgement, but the point is to get a feel for how the charm works, yeah?” He looks out into the class expectantly. Harry nods, thinking Nick may need some encouragement. It seems to help. Nick beams. “Alright, split up, and get to thinking about summat happy. Works best with one, clear, happy memory. Focus on that, let it take you through.”

Harry gets up and moves to a clear space in the classroom. He closes his eyes. Happy memory. He thinks about last Christmas with his mum and Gemma, how they’d played Exploding Snap until midnight. He thinks about his birthday last year, when all the lads went out to the Billywig since they were finally all of age and Niall danced on a table and Harry ended up getting an ill-advised tattoo and they’d all been so drunk they’d fallen asleep on the Knight Bus and then lost Gryffindor 193 points. He thinks about the day he got Onion Crisp, when she was a little runty kitten in a cage at the Magical Menagerie and how she’d licked his hand. He thinks a little bit about the sofa in Nick’s rooms, and then puts that to the back of his mind. 

Drawing vividly on the recollection of his seventh birthday, Harry begins to move his wand in small circles like the diagram — not a penis, turns out — shows. “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” he says, the familiar jolt of magic coursing through his arm. Harry opens his eyes, hoping for a baby dragon, or a unicorn. 

It’s white mist. 

White mist is not a fun result to his personality test.

White mist seems to be a widely common result in the class. 

Across the room, Nick is correcting Leigh-Anne’s arm positioning. Harry waits for him to finish and then sidles over, dodging the various patches of other peoples’ white mist personalities. 

“Hey, hey, Nick,” he says, “What did the Patronus say to the criminal?” 

Nick’s mouth twitches in advance. 

Harry grins. “I’m here to show you the _Auror_ of your ways!” 

Nick hits him over the head with his wand, which is probably abuse. Harry should owl a centre. “ _Hey_ , that was a good one. So, Nick, what’s your Patronus?”

Nick looks at him for a minute and then cracks up. “Merlin, Styles. That’s about the worst chat-up line since d’you wanna go look at the aquaducts.” 

Harry would kind of like to go look at the aquaducts. “What about d’you want a ride on my broomstick? I’ve got an Oakshaft ’69.” 

“You must be _expelliarmus_ baby, because your smile is disarming.”

“Did you put me under _confundus_ , or are you just naturally mind blowing?” 

“You haven’t happened to slip me some Skele-Gro, have you? Because you’re growing me a bone.”

Harry barks a laugh. “Did you survive _Avada Kedavra_? Because you’re drop dead gorgeous.” 

Nick snorts. “Tip of the trade, Harold, don’t try that one on someone who actually _has_ survived _Avada Kedavra._ Gets awkward.” 

Harry hoists himself up on Nick’s desk and starts rhythmically kicking him. Across the room, it looks like Eleanor’s white vapour has started to grow ears. Louis is scowling darkly at it, muttering something about maggots. “ _So_? C’mon tell, what is it?” 

Nick looks slightly edgy, shifting from foot to foot and pointedly observing the class goings-on. “Christ, Harold, get your tits under control, what’s the big deal?” 

“My tits can be out of control if they want to be,” says Harry, “ _Niiick,_ c’mon, what is it?” 

Nick twists his quiff up with one hand and huffs a laugh. “Christ, fine, you child. It’s a Welsh Green, alright?” 

Harry snorts. “Come off it, mate, a dragon?” 

“Yeah, sounds like a chat-up, don’t it.” Nick shrugs, looking torn between wanting to show off and doing his spooked animal bit. 

“I want to see,” says Harry immediately.

“You want to see my dragon?” asks Nick archly, raising one eyebrow. “I would have thought — ooh, workplace. Finchy keeps warning me about that. Shut up, I’m not going to, it’s a massive hassle.” 

“God, what a _nightmare_ , y’know, my massive dragon Patronus, makes everyone _so_ intimidated of me, my life is _so hard_ ,” moans Harry dramatically, trying to match his voice to Nick’s

“Not so that you would understand this Harold, because I’m sure your Patronus will be minuscule and mockable, but it’s bloody irritating trying to pass a message along to someone by Patronus when your Patronus can’t bloody fit in the building.” 

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “Too big to fit, eh?”

Nick throws a quill at him. “You’re a menace, and I’ve never liked you. _Fine_. I’ll do the bloody Patronus, but you asked for it, and you aren’t allowed to say _a word._ ” Nick takes out his wand and begins casting it in small circles, brow furrowed as he illuminates the surrounding air with a sort of pearly vapour.

“ _Expecto patronum_ ,” says Nick, and the pearly light from his wand expands, and expands, and expands, and expands, larger than Harry thought possible until he realises it’s not just a big orb of light it’s a dragon, long and spiny, with sharp, sharp teeth. 

The class goes quiet, looks at Nick with his skinny legs and long, odd face, and at the dragon, ducking the ceiling and thumping its long silver tail on the floor. Harry is glad he is sitting down. He thinks he would probably need to sit down, if he weren’t already sitting down. 

“So, uh, you can see, giant Patronus, don’t always fit in rooms. Tricky situations, bit awkward of a pressing case time. Anyway, this girl is what you’d call the corporeal Patronus form. I call her Beyoncé.” Nick smiles at Beyoncé affectionately for a minute. Beyoncé nips at Nick’s hand before disappearing with a quiet whoosh. 

Nick turns back to the class and grins. Harry can tell that Nick is pretending not to be extremely pleased with himself. Harry can tell this because he’s doing a terrible job and it’s superbly obvious that he is extremely pleased with himself. 

“She’s alright, Beyoncé, isn’t she?” preens Nick, “Now don’t stop practising, you lot, you’d think a great massive lizard just showed up in here, honestly.” 

Harry clears his throat roughly, and thinks firmly about friendship. “So… Beyoncé?” 

Nick looks smug. “My DMLE partner was Muggleborn. I told you, I know things about Muggles, Styles. _And_ I saw her dancing about in Lou’s clacky metal box last night, I did, on the WhoDos, didn’t I.” 

“Alright, Grim,” says Harry, rolling his eyes fondly. “So, what d’you think about, for your Patronus? I thought about my seventh birthday and just got a load of white mist, it was rubbish.” 

“None of your business, nosy,” says Nick, turning around to fumble with something on his desk, “Why don’t you get off your arse and do some practising, your flobberworm Patronus isn’t going to cast itself.” 

Harry pokes Nick in his soft side but does as he’s told. If the class teaches him nothing else, Harry has apparently learned that his personality is very firmly white mist. It’s something most of his classmates seem to have in common. After an hour, the DADA classroom is as foggy as the Thames during the time of the Bludgeoning Boggart of Old London Towne. A few people have managed shapes, but no one’s come out with a definitive animal. 

When he adjourns the class, Nick sounds much less discouraged than Harry feels. “Wands down, guys! Nice work today. We’ll start up again after hols. Try and get some happy in, yeah?” 

Harry wants to hang back and chat to Nick but class has gone over and he has a meeting. He settles for charming a bit of parchment to fly at Nick’s head. Harry pokes his head back into the room to see Nick unfold it. Harry’s drawn a slightly shit cartoon dragon with giant heart eyes, a bubble from its mouth saying ‘ooh, my soul’s a bleedin dragon, but don’t go on about it’. Nick barks a laugh and puts the note up against a picture frame on his desk. 

Somewhere in Harry’s chest, Beyoncé the Common Welsh Green that is Nick’s inner soul spirit has taken up couchsurfing and is breathing fire on his insides. Just a little fire. It’s cute fire, probably. 

“Haz, c’mon, tardiness,” says Niall, tugging on his arm. “Stop creeping on Grimmy, we’ve got things.” 

“Niall,” says Harry slowly, “Why don’t you want a Dementor to go down on you?” 

“Because they’re mingers?” 

“No, ‘cos they’ll suck out your soul through your dick.” 

Niall thwacks him on the head. Harry doesn’t mind. 

— 

“Listen, Harold,” says Nick, when they’re hanging out in his office later, Nick marking essays and Harry enchanting bits of parchment to fly at his face, “Over hols I’m having this little pre-Christmas Christmas dinner thing, and your hero Luna will be in attendance. I think you should pop round, make nice.” 

“Really?” asks Harry, wand paused in midair. 

“Really, Harold,” agrees Nick, cheerfully. He throws a ball of parchment at Harry’s head. “Only it’s just dinner. No clubs, no club loos. They lead only to terrors.” 

Harry expects his stomach to twist in disappointment, but all he can manage is a sort of relief. True, Harry would have liked a nice club loo, and a nice hand on his penis, but Nick has cut Harry off every time he’s tried to bring up the Billywig incident since it happened. It’s nice to hear Nick acknowledge it out loud with words instead of being deliberately obtuse. 

“ _Hey_ ,” whines Harry, “They do not.” 

“Do too,” says Nick, wrinkling his nose at Harry. 

They do, they do, they definitely do, but Harry doesn’t like to let Nick think he’s got the better of him. 

—

Three days before Christmas and two days before Louis’s eighteenth birthday Harry is sitting in an Ethiopian restaurant in London between Nick and his all time naturalist hero Luna Lovegood. Somewhere down the table, Hermione bloody _Granger_ is ranting about House Elf mandates to a blonde girl named Pixie, Professor Longbottom — Neville — and _Ginny Weasley_ , who when not hanging about being married to Harry bloody Potter or being a Quidditch _legend_ apparently recreationally punches Nick in the shoulder and calls him Grimmers. 

Hermione Granger looks nothing like her Chocolate Frog card. Harry wants to tell Zayn immediately. 

“Um, Ms. Lovegood?” Harry says, tentatively, as his naturalist hero Luna Lovegood gracefully shovels lentils into her mouth. “I just wanted to say, um, that you’ve been a real inspiration to me, in inspiring me to work with animals. I thought your piece about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack was incredibly moving.” 

“That’s very kind,” says naturalist Luna Lovegood warmly, “Please, call me Luna.” 

“Your articles about the Ninkadull Eagle People have been absolutely formative,” says Harry, unable to stop himself from spewing adoration. 

“Thank you for saying so, Harold, I am quite proud of my Ninkadull studies. You know, their crowning ceremonies are quite involved — Nicholas, please stop kicking Harold’s foot, you’re distracting him — they actually vary according to Venus’s ascendence. I’m writing a companion piece right now. I can owl it to you once I’ve completed it, if you like.” 

Harry has no idea how Luna knows that Nick has been periodically kicking his left ankle all evening. Nick hasn’t stopped gossiping with Finchy and Professor Phillips — Aimee — or even turned around once. Harry is pretty sure he hasn’t flinched himself, either. Ravenclaws are a mysterious breed. “Definitely,” says Harry, “I would love that, thank you.” 

“You are very welcome, Harold,” she says. “Please pass the spinach.” 

Harry passes the spinach. “Um, though, actually. Nick only calls me Harold to be funny. My full name’s actually Harry.” 

“Hm,” says Luna, tucking into the spinach. “No, I think I’ll go on calling you Harold.” 

“Okay,” says Harry. Nick kicks him again. Harry is going to have Nick-specific bruises, and not the fun kind. It’s a horrible tease. He pointedly does not think about the fun kind. Harry is doing his very best to be just friends.

It’s going okay. 

Luna leans in closer to him, close enough that the crown of burbalil flowers she’s wearing catches in Harry’s curls. Luna’s eyes are very big, like a kneazle’s. “Look after him, Harold Styles,” she says, nodding towards Nick. Harry darts a glance back. Nick is recounting something ridiculous in a loud, dramatic voice, holding the conversational focus even at a table filled with people who have their own Chocolate Frog cards. Harry’s pretty certain that Nick’s eyes keep sliding back towards Harry and then refocusing forwards, but he’s not positive. “He really likes you.” 

“I like him too,” says Harry, wondering how much Luna knows. 

Luna sits back, reaching for the chicken. “Are you familiar with the brännskada snail?” Luna offers him a piece of chicken that Harry takes, unthinkingly. He shakes his head. 

“The brännskada snail is native to the Scandes in Northern Sweden. I was visiting friends in Kiruna when I first heard the story. It goes like this: for hundreds of years, Swedish witches and wizards were afraid of the brännskada snail, because it made a very large booming sound that occasionally caused avalanches, and its coating appeared to be tough and aricular, and it would periodically emit flames from its mouth. This became a colloquial phrase often used in conversation, you see. Harsh as a brännskada snail, burn down your barn with a brännskada snail. The trouble was —” Luna switches the chicken out for the green lentils. “ — no one had actually examined the creature closely, not until a Swedish naturalist braved the fear of the brännskada snail in order to study its mating habits. That’s when she realised that actually, the snail has no coating at all. It doesn’t emit any flames. It generates both as an illusion. Of course, no one believed the claim. After all, there are common phrases that cannot be vanished. Language does help petrify an idea.” Luna reaches for more injera. “That’s like Nicholas. He’s very light-reflective, you see.” 

On Harry’s other side, Nick is making big gestures with his hands as he chatters. Harry loves Nick’s hands, how they arc out of his bony wrists, how his long fingers cut through the air. In DADA, Nick casts spells like they’re part of his body, like his wand is a natural extension of his hands. 

“Age-structured homosexual relationships along educational lines were very common in ancient wizards. Arichades was Mopses’s tutor, you know,” says Luna matter-of-factly, “Have some lentils.”  

Harry blinks at her. He takes the lentils. 

“I support your union,” says Luna serenely, “So long as you remember the brännskada snail.” 

“Are you telling him terrible things?” asks Nick, turning to Harry and Luna, “All Ravenclaws are liars. I’ve said this for years.” 

Harry looks at Nick’s bright, happy face, the flush along his cheeks and how the skin wrinkles at the corners of Nick’s eyes. Nick hates his crow’s feet; says he’s tried every anti-ageing potion known to beast or being on his face to no avail. Harry loves them. They make Harry think about Hogwarts, about something Lou told him once: that when you cast a spell over and over again in the same place, a residue is left behind. That’s why electronics can’t work in the castle, because there's too much magic in the air. Nick’s wrinkles are like that, Harry thinks. Like Nick has laughed so many times that the evidence is forever etched in his face, and now there’s too much residue, and that’s why Harry can’t manage to hold onto a strop when Nick’s around. 

Nick is laughing now, the throaty burble of it summoning Harry’s smile sure as an _accio_. 

Harry thinks about magical residues, and Nick’s laugh, and the brännskada snail and how empty Nick’s eyes had looked that morning in November, when he’d tried to break up the fight in the Entrance Hall. Harry wonders what Luna was really talking about, besides snails. 

“No,” says Harry, smiling up at Nick’s ridiculous face, “Only nice things. I promise.” 

—

Winter holidays pass in a blur of baked goods and lazy lie-ins, and January dawns chilly and grey before Harry has tired of the extended sleep schedule. Harry is half-asleep when he meets the boys at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and dozes on and off as the Hogwarts Express takes them north to Scotland. 

“Sort of stupid for us to have to go all the way down to London just to come right back north,” says Zayn without opening his eyes. He’s lying the full length of a bench in their compartment, his school jumper over his face. 

Liam looks up from his centaur romance novel ( _Artemesia and the Cloven Hoof_ , apparently it’s a real page-turner). “You say that every year.” 

“True every year,” says Zayn. 

Harry breathes onto the window and draws a heart in the condensation. Beyond the glass, fields and little houses rattle past in a muted blur. “This is the last time we’re going to take the train to Hogwarts,” he notes. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but Harry feels sort of like there are stones in his chest, or like part of his stomach is attached to Portkey whilst the rest of him is sat on the train. 

Niall kicks his knee from the floor. “Stop moping. We know you’re all in with the rich’n famous now, so your future’s all set.” 

“Shut up,” says Harry, but he can’t help the flush that rises up his neck at the memory. “I am not.” 

“Eleanor was looking shifty earlier,” says Louis darkly. He’s been looking towards the door of their compartment every fifteen seconds since the train left the station. 

“What happened to her being the slayer of your unhappiness, the Hermione Granger to your Ron Weasley?” asks Harry innocently. 

Louis throws him an absolutely withering look. 

“Hermione really doesn’t look much like her Chocolate Frog card,” Harry muses. “Her hair’s not nearly so styled, you know?” 

“Yes,” grunts Zayn, “We know, because you’ve said so fifteen times since Boxing Day.” 

“She’s up to something,” mutters Louis, “I don’t know what, but she’s definitely up to something.” 

“Hermione Granger?” asks Niall, “Probably. She’s saved the world and all, bit clever I think.” 

“ _Eleanor_ ,” says Louis. “High alert, lads. Slytherin’s been out for blood after our match. They play Ravenclaw in a month and if they win by over 200 they’ll lap us in the rankings.” 

“We’re dead last in the House Cup,” says Liam grumpily, turning the page of his novel. On the cover, Artemesia who likes cloven hooves sighs, her bosomy frame clasped to a massive centaur chest. “All the other Prefects are taking the piss.” 

“We’re not,” says Louis, affronted, “We’re over Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff’s first, then Slytherin, then us, then Ravenclaw. That’s the standings.” 

“Nope,” says Liam, “You’ll see, when we get to the castle. Some fifth-years had a party and lost us 67 points.” 

“Little fuckers,” agrees Niall, cheerfully. Niall had gone to that party. Harry’s pretty sure at least half the point loss was him. 

Three hours later, the hourglasses in the Entrance Hall confirms Liam’s statement, rubies dwindling sadly in the bottom of Gryffindor’s glass case. 

“Maybe we should, like, try not to break so many rules?” suggests Harry, looking between Gryffindor’s paltry supply and Hufflepuff’s overabundance of topaz. 

“Fat chance of that,” snorts Niall. 

“We _could_ ,” says Louis, affronted. “We’re highly fucking capable.” 

Liam looks torn between joy and desolation. His eyebrows waggle around his face, untethered to a specific emotion. 

“Yeah, you know what, we will. We’re gonna stay in line,” says Louis definitively, measuring the Gryffindor line against Slytherin’s, “We can do that. Don’t want those snakes getting the up, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” chorus the rest of them, unconvincingly. 

“Louis and the Rogues have _depth_ ,” says Louis, squinting at the hourglass. 

Niall looks around the Entrance Hall, no longer particularly bothered about hourglasses or the gemstones therein. “We’re the Imps now, mate.” 

Zayn makes a face. “Doom squad.”

“The Gryffindor Gang,” suggests Liam. 

“I still like the Five Points,” says Harry. 

Louis scowls. “Whatever, we’re gonna to do this. It’s gonna work.”

—

Louis’s resolve lasts exactly 48 hours. On the dawn of the second day, the Gryffindor seventh-year boys awake to two feet of snow and a violently viridian dorm. The sudden epidemic of chartreuse is enough to vanquish Louis’s resolve towards good behaviour, but a half hour later Louis is ready to declare the Third Wizarding War. 

An innocent plaid button-down instigates an investigation which reveals irrevocably that all of their casual clothing has been enchanted to turn the skin of its wearer corresponding colours. Louis is so angry that he has an uncontrolled magic leak and accidentally breaks every mirror in the room. A tie-dyed Niall calculates that Louis earns approximately a billion years of bad luck, which figures. Louis is too busy fuming whilst striped to care. 

Harry’s not particularly pleased — he doesn’t like that the Slytherins went into their dorm room; it feels intrusive — but overall it’s mostly funny to have a bunch of tops that can turn you into patterns. Besides, they didn’t mess with Hubert or his cat at all, and that’s the important thing. 

Also, Harry firmly believes that one has not lived until one sees Zayn Malik, clad entirely in canary yellow with skin and hair to match, beg Perrie Edwards to swap shirts. 

Harry is fully aware that he could charm a decent wardrobe out of the residents of Gryffindor Tower, but he begs off, claiming trouser length incompatibilities. Slytherin’s latest exploit has opened an ideal window for Harry to finally get his hands on the spattergroit lion jumper he so rightfully deserves. 

When Harry knocks, Nick looks surprisingly unfazed for someone who has just opened his door at nine in the morning to a solidly plaid visitor with equally plaid bedhead. Harry pouts a little. He was hoping for a better reaction. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m a human tartan?” he asks, pushing past Nick to get into his rooms. A repeat of a WWN vocal competition warbles from Nick’s wireless. 

“I would,” says Nick, closing the door behind him, “but I prefer to make something up myself.” 

“The Slytherins charmed all our clothes,” says Harry, pulling his shirt over his head. He looks down at his torso. The red plaid seeps away, thankfully. “Can you lend me some things?” 

When Harry looks back at Nick, Nick is pointedly staring at the wall. Harry is slightly put out about it, actually, he was hoping for a little more evidence that Nick is collecting for a memory-based patchwork of his nudity like Harry has for him. 

Nick clears his throat. “Sure,” he says, “What d’you like?” 

“Some shirts and things,” says Harry, “And that jumper you have? You wore it to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. The one with the lion on that looks like it has spattergroit?” 

Nick huffs a laugh. “Very specific, Styles,” he drawls, disappearing down the hallway. When he returns, he has the lion jumper in hand and Harry has sprawled all over his sofa. Nick looks a bit like Danielle did after she got hit by that Bludger. He throws the handful of clothing at Harry’s head. “Oi, pervert. Put summat on, please.” 

Reluctantly, Harry tugs the old Gryffindor jumper over his head. It’s a bit big on him, the spattergroit lion distended over his chest. It smells good. 

“Smells good,” he says. 

“You should get back,” says Nick, standing by the wireless with his hands in his pockets, looking a bit useless. “Make sure Louis doesn’t dungbomb out Slytherin in the middle of the day.” 

Harry feels suddenly guilty. Just friends, he’d promised. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he says, ducking his head as he gets up to leave. 

Nick’s face does a sort of complicated swoop. “Hey, we’ll meet up later, yeah? Pop round to Lou and Tom’s, do some WhoYouing or summat, you can show me what them mad Muggles are into these days.” 

“YouTubing,” corrects Harry, his bad mood dying as fast as an iPod on Hogwarts’s grounds. 

“Whatever,” says Nick lightly, seeing Harry out. “Oh — Haz.” Harry turns back, looks at Nick in the doorway. “Just — be a bit careful, yeah? With your boys. With your whole —“ Nick waves expansively. “Hexed plaid thing.” 

Harry tilts his head, questioning. 

“It’s no big deal,” assures Nick hastily, “Just, uh. Keep it in mind. Alright?” 

“Alright,” says Harry. He walks back to Gryffindor slightly more confused and definitely more sexually frustrated, but no longer resembling a tartan tomato, which is nice. 


	6. Harry Styles and the Plague of Patroni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry makes an invisible friend, Nick is an absolute success as an adult, and Ravenclaws learn they will never get into Viking heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It grows it grows, 12k of white mist and weirdos. As always, thanks to Bee for the look-over and lengthy emails, you are a treasure. Thanks due also to Chex who knows stuff about animals, you people for liking this thing enough to tell me about it, and my housemates, who feed me.

The third Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the second term begins with a hefty betting pool, because Nick Grimshaw is by far the most professional and responsible professor on Hogwarts staff. According to him. 

“I’ve got 3 galleons on a fluffy bunny for Niall,” says Zayn, slapping the coins down on the table. 

“I’d be a fluffy, bloodsucking bunny,” says Niall, unconcerned, “With massive fangs. Give me a galleon on Louis for a monkey, and 13 sickles on Perrie for a small mammal.” 

Nick makes a mark in the ‘primate’ column. Harry’s not sure if this is what the classroom’s chalkboard was intended for. 

“10 galleons on Calder for a Dementor,” says Louis proudly, sending a dark look Eleanor’s way. She just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

“Humanoid form, Louis, so not probable,” snorts Nick. 

“ _You’re_ humanoid,” says Louis. 

“Well, yeah,” says Zayn, “We all are, Lou.” 

“Fine, something in the crustaceans.” Louis forks over his galleons. The Slytherins are standing on the opposite side of the table to the Gryffindors, and have bet purely on tame herbivores. Louis has taken this as a massive insult. 

Harry wonders if he can bet on white mist for everyone. It’s been white mist for ages. Only Danny Riach and Danielle have achieved anything that has a shape. Louis lost 13 sickles on Danielle’s dolphin and Zayn won 20 galleons on Danny’s bear. The rest of them are firmly incorporeal. 

“You guys realise that your feud is only making it more likely for us to win anything?” asks a Hufflepuff named Emily, putting 15 sickles on water mammals for Leigh-Anne. 

“Let them live on in ignorance, they seem quite happy about it,” says Danny, patting Emily on the arm. He puts 5 galleons in the canine category for Harry. 

Harry thinks that’s probably a compliment. Dogs are great. 

“You people don’t understand our fight against evil,” says Louis importantly. 

“That’s true, Lou,” agrees Liam, putting 10 sickles on invertebrates. 

Across the table in the Slytherin group, Bieber throws his hands in the air and then brings them down so hard on the table that the sickles he had been counting out rattle alarmingly. “Oh my _god_ ,” he says, “You people are fucking _obsessed_. What is _wrong_ with you? You call us evil but you start _everything_ , you dicks.”

Harry takes an involuntary step back from the table. Nick’s hands still over the betting pot. 

“True,” says Eleanor, sorting out the contents of her wallet. 

“Can’t help it if you lot _are_ _evil_ ,” snaps Louis, knuckles white on his wallet as he pulls out a galleon to put on amphibians. 

“You did go into our dormitory,” agrees Zayn darkly, “Fucking invasion of privacy.” 

“You went into our common room _first_!” shrieks Bieber.  

Nick looks intensely awkward. He raises his hands slowly, spreading his fingers wide in the air like stop signs. “Alright, boys,” says Nick lightly, “Let’s all calm our collective tits. No Muggle duelling in here, yeah?” Nick shoots Harry an insider’s grin, tinged with nerves around the edges. “You all keep that to the corridors and Matt Fincham’s classroom, now.” 

Harry laughs loudly, partially because it’s funny and partially because someone ought to. The Gryffindors and Slytherins calm down to a grumbling silence and Nick’s shoulders make their way back down to shoulder position from where they had been crowded up by his ears. 

Nick claps his hands. “And with that, I’m closing the pool for the day at too bloody many galleons to count, we’ll sort it if any of you manage more than amorphous fog! Remember, any word of this to our lovely Headmistress and all the pot goes to me as part of my severance. Now go on, wave some wands about, will you.” 

Harry trails to the edge of the room after Louis and Zayn. Both of them have their plotting faces on. It’s like their regular faces, but with more squinting. 

“We could put Devil’s Snare in their beds,” says Zayn quietly. 

“Bubotuber pus in their shampoo bottles,” suggests Louis with a demonic grin. 

On second thought, this is not the circle of fun time friends that Harry was hoping for. He turns back around, heading towards Nick and trying not to think about the 347 detentions in his future. 

“Nice threads,” says Nick, when Harry gets there. Harry looks down. He’s wearing Nick’s spattergroit lion jumper over his uniform shirt. It is impossible that Harry has worn this jumper every day this week, because that would be lunacy. Harry has worn the jumper _nearly_ every day this week. Which is fine. 

“Thanks,” says Harry, grinning and tugging at spattergroit lion’s face, “How’s Beyoncé?” 

“Not greyish mist, unlike some,” says Nick. He looks over towards the back of the classroom where Zayn, Liam and Louis are huddled, decidedly not attempting any kind of defensive spells. Nick’s eyebrow arches, but he stays put. “So, young Harold. I hear you’re in correspondence with our lovely Miss Lovegood.” 

“Oh, yeah!” says Harry, looking away from the trio of terror. “She sent me this article she’s working on, and I had a few questions, so we’ve been talking a bit.” 

“Mm,” says Nick, one eyebrow looking pleased whilst the other looks troubled. Harry thinks eyebrows should work together on expressions, it’s only nice. “Odd, innit, she doesn’t usually take much to new people.” 

“What, are you _jealous_?” asks Harry. 

“ _No_ ,” laughs Nick, affronted. Maybe a bit too affronted. The surprise of his tone seems to register on Nick’s face, and he immediately turns to flick through the Creatures Compendium, hastily, paging through borlocks to bundimuns too quickly to absorb any information. “Go on, Harold, go get your hamster Patronus manifested or sommat. I’ve got important professory things to do, haven’t I.” 

“Sure thing, Grim,” says Harry, smirking. He leaves Nick to his devoted examination of bundimun studies and goes to join Niall by the doorway. 

“Harry, mate, look,” says Niall, grinning excitedly, “I almost got it, hold on.” Niall squeezes his eyes shut, circling his wand slowly. Familiar white mist emerges. “ _Expecto patronum_!” 

All at once, the mist emanating from Niall’s wand coalesces into a round, oblong shape, growing features and solid, glowing edges. Niall gives a great shout of excitement and that Harry can’t help but echo, clapping his hand over his mouth.  

“We’ve got another one!” crows Nick, bounding over from his desk. “Brilliant, Niall, that’s fantastic. Looks like a penguin to me, mate, here, check it out.” Nick tosses Niall the Creatures Compendium. 

Most of the class has gathered round them to watch Niall’s Patronus flit around happily. It ghosts over one of Harry’s shoulders and Harry desperately wants to hug it. Penguins are _perfect_ hugging shape. In this way, the penguin reminds Harry very much of Niall. 

Niall squints a the book. “I think it’s a… King penguin. Brilliant. I’m the king.” Niall beams at his king penguin. 

The class goes up to Nick’s desk to settle their bets and get into a large argument about whether or not a bet on a puffin is close enough to win part of the pot. Louis is insisting that penguins aren’t birds. Zayn looks ready to strangle him.

“Hey, hey, Niall,” says Harry, hanging back. “Why don’t you see penguins in Britain?” Niall gives him the heavy look that means he knows exactly what’s coming. “Because they’re afraid of Wales!” 

Niall makes an incredulous face. 

“Get it? ‘Cause… Wales? Whales? Like, the animal?” 

Niall just shakes his head and goes to settle the bet. 

—

After class Louis drags them all to an isolated corner of the Gryffindor table, away from their usual prime centre spots. “Don’t want to be overheard,” he says, craning his head to check for eavesdroppers. 

Liam nods wisely. “Spies are everywhere.” 

“I think… students, actually,” says Harry.

They ignore him.

“We’re going to settle the score with the slimy serpents of assholery and pain,” says Louis, finally convinced that they are safe. “Zayn, explain.” 

“We want to invade their territory again,” says Zayn, pulling a piece of parchment out of his bag and lays it out. The parchment is covered in tiny notes and little drawings and diagrams. “We’re thinking we go for their bathrooms, you know, swap their showerheads out for something shitty. Dunno. What do you lads think?” 

Harry looks at the diagrams for a minute, thinking hard. “We could… switch their lightbulbs? For other lightbulbs? That aren’t as bright?” 

“We thought showers since it’d be a pretty good shock,” continues Zayn, “See, look here.” 

“That would be a terrible affront to Hogwarts’ rulebook,” says Liam tragically, “And I think it should be possibly a plant substance, maybe a vine?” 

“What if we… swapped their cushions? For… less good cushions?” suggests Harry. 

“ _Vines,_ ” enthuses Louis, “Write that down, Zayn.” 

“Sick,” says Niall cheerfully, “Sounds hilarious.” 

Harry keeps looking at the stick figures Louis has added to the edge of Zayn’s plans. “We could… put all their books in? The wrong way?” 

Zayn beams at Niall. “Thanks. And we have everything all planned, except a couple of things.” 

“Right,” says Louis, “So we’re going to need the Slytherin password — Zayn or Harry, you two are slaggy, go and snog someone in a green tie or something. And we’re going to need a time where most people are out of the castle.” 

“Could do during classes,” suggests Niall. 

“ _Hey_ ,” says Harry, “Am not. Why don’t _you_ do it?” 

Louis squeezes Harry’s cheeks so his lips go all fishy. “I would, Harold, but my body is a temple and they are a fungusy disease and an affront to society.” He lets go of Harry’s face and shares a smirk with Zayn that Harry can’t decipher. 

“There’s another Hogsmeade weekend coming up at the end of the month,” says Liam brightly. He’s gotten his schedule out and is paging through it. Harry’s pretty sure he’s give or take five minutes away from writing ‘DASTARDLY DEEDS’ in the 4-7 pm slot. 

“Perfect,” smirks Louis. He looks over his shoulder, past the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs to the Slytherin table. “Now one of you get to work on that Slytherin password. Worst comes to worst, we can just get it out of a first-year.”  Louis cracks his knuckles. 

Harry hopes that the knuckle cracking is unrelated. 

— 

Most of January has passed in a blur of snow and revision by the Ravenclaw-Slytherin Quidditch match, and still, none of them has succeeded in acquiring the Slytherin password. Admittedly, Harry hasn’t tried, but the result stands. Louis had high hopes for Zayn’s birthday, but Zayn spent the entire night snogging Perrie in the Gryffindor common room which apparently had ‘no tactical advantage whatsoever’. Harry thinks that snogging is its own tactical advantage, but that might be his horny hippogriff talking. 

The time restraint is making Louis even jumpier, and he throws himself into match festivities with a vengeance that would startle a professional Chudley Cannons mascot with a doxy powder problem. Obviously, Louis’s overzealous commitment means that all the 7th years throw themselves into match festivities with equal zeal, inevitably. 

Harry and his dormmates are various shades of navy and cerulean as they ready themselves for breakfast the morning of the Ravenclaw/Slytherin Quidditch match. After the Slytherin Dorm Invasion of January 2011, Harry had stashed away a few of his cursed jumpers for comedic purposes, because randomly looking like a giant paisley print is always a good laugh, and now his magpie hoard has worked in his favour. Louis is delighted. Harry spends twenty minutes in front of the mirror, examining his blue heart-print eyeballs. The mirror is duly impressed. 

After all the hysteria in Gryffindor, the Great Hall shows little sign of the match to come. The ceiling sky is mild and tables are only half filled with sleepy students munching on toast, whilst a few professors scattered around the staff table sink deep into their coffees. The only sign of the event to come is a cluster of blue-robed Quidditch players looking over their playbook at the Ravenclaw table. Louis bounds over. Harry trails behind, eying the staff table. Nick’s not up yet, and neither is Matt Fincham or Professor Phillips. Professor Longbottom sits alone, tucking into a bowl of cereal cheerfully. Professor Longbottom has different sleep habits than Nick. Harry wonders if their friendship is best between the hours of noon and five. 

Danny Riach is eating a massive plate of bacon, which looks delicious. 

“Hiya, Danny,” says Louis, grinning with all his checked blue and white teeth. “You ready to _crush some spines_? You prepared to _yank out some spleens_?” 

“Was just going to play some Quidditch, actually, mate,” says Danny, shrugging. He eats another piece of bacon. Harry wonders if it’s impolite to steal his bacon, and then decides that Danny would want him to be sufficiently proteined. He snatches a piece and chews on it, pleased. Danny doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Nice look, by the way.” Danny motions towards their patterned forms. 

“Thanks!” says Harry excitedly, tugging on his shirt. “It was my idea.” 

Louis looks cross, and also turquoise. “ _Spleens_ ,” he says. 

Niall wanders down the table to chat to some Ravenclaws near the muffin platter. The Ravenclaws seem interested in Niall’s navy blue skin. Niall seems interested in the muffin platter. Harry steals another piece of bacon from Danny, because protein is important. 

Danny just blinks at Louis. “Don’t really think I can get at spleens from my broom, actually. Throwing the Quaffle doesn’t usually lead to dismemberment.” 

“Then you are _doing it wrong_ ,” says Louis. Harry thinks Louis is about a half second away from stamping his foot, which has been pretty common for him mood-wise for the past week. 

“Chill out a bit, mate,” says Zayn mildly, examining his teal fingernails. Zayn has been maddeningly zen since his birthday. Apparently eighteen is the year of maturity. 

“Yeah, alright, Tommo,” says Danny, “Hey, I gotta get down to the pitch. Catch you all later.”

“Good luck out there, Danny,” says Liam earnestly. He thumps him on the arm manfully, with one royal blue hand. 

“Cheers,” says Danny, climbing over the bench and heading towards the Entrance Hall. 

“VIKING RULES, DANNY!” bellows Louis after him, “CUT OUT THE SCALPS OF YOUR ENEMIES AND USE THEM FOR KINDLING THE ETERNAL FLAME OF YOUR HATRED!” 

Danny gives him a vague thumbs up and an _uh-huh_ nod, that patronising expression that rests so easily on the features of every Ravenclaw when they think ‘poor soul, you are beyond all hope’. Zayn does a highly credible imitation, but his is a little too exasperated. True Ravenclaws are unsurprised by the imbecility of others. 

“I think he was inspired by that, Lou,” says Liam earnestly, watching the rest of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team meander out of the Great Hall. 

Louis glowers at their backs. “I hope he’s practised his captain’s speech. I should probably pop round, just to make sure.” 

The day is warm for January but damp, the skies threatening rain. Louis shakes his fist at the heavens at least four times as they make their way down to the pitch. Zayn makes a few points about wind conditions that seem to hearten him. Harry can’t stop looking at his blue hands. He wonders if every part of him is blue and covered in white hearts as well, including his organs. It would be like wallpaper for his intestines. 

Louis cares not for intestinal wallpaper. He leads them all up the stairs into the stands, looking affronted that the Ravenclaws aren’t strictly segregated by house, and, worse, half of them have brought books. 

“What are you _doing_?” Louis asks a small third-year girl. “There are _lives at stake here_.” 

“Actually,” says the girl, without looking up from her reading, “No one has ever died in a Quidditch game. Sometimes referees disappear and turn up months later in deserts, though.” 

“ _You’ll_ turn up months later in a desert,” says Louis. He scowls and goes to claim the good seats at the front of the stands. Liam, Zayn and Niall follow, monopolising the row. 

Harry hangs back by the third-year, hands in his pockets. She’s reading a centaur romance he recognises vaguely from Liam’s collection. “You won’t,” he assures her, “He’s just talking.” 

“I know,” says the girl. She still hasn’t looked up from her book. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you go sit down? Artemesisa is about to have an encounter with a hoard of centaurs, and I’d like to finish this chapter before the game begins.” 

“Um,” says Harry, thinking about the colourful excerpts Liam has read aloud to him, “Isn’t that book maybe a little… graphic?” 

“I’m exploring my sexual identity. It’s very healthy for someone of my age.” The girl waves him off with one hand, eyes on the page. 

“Okay,” says Harry. He leaves her to her improbable and potentially physically uncomfortable sexual awakening. 

Harry sits down next to Zayn, who is unrolling their banners at the front of the stands. Each banner is more grisly than the last. Zayn hands one of an eagle biting through the explosively bloody neck of a serpent to Liam, who looks delighted with the exchange. 

“Hey, guys,” says Harry, “Wouldn’t it be like… difficult, physically, to have sex with a centaur?” 

“I support you and your lifestyle choice,” says Liam immediately.

“It’s not… It’s not me, but that’s not — it wouldn’t be, like, a choice,” begins Harry, wondering what pamphlets Liam has been reading in his spare time, “I mean, sexuality is —”

Louis slaps a hand over his mouth before Harry can continue. “Stop that. No heart-to-hearts about your dicks and dick feelings right now, lads. It’s _time_.” 

Sure enough, the Ravenclaw and Slytherins teams are lining up on the pitch by Paul, who is wrestling with a Bludger. Danny reaches out a hand towards Danielle, grinning. Danielle scowls. 

“I miss the megaphone,” says Niall wistfully, resting his chin on the railing, “We were proper mates.” 

Zayn pats him on the shoulder. “You can commentate for us, Ni. We don’t mind if you say cuntrocket three times in a sentence.” 

Niall visibly brightens. 

Harry scans the stands for Nick, wondering if he’ll even show up for the game. Nick had spent about an hour the day before complaining to Harry about Hogwarts’ sick obsession with Quidditch, but he’d attended the last two matches anyway. 

Paul blows his whistle sharply and releases the Bludgers. The players take off into the air, shooting into position.

“And they’re off like a fucking rocket,” says Niall excitedly, over the sound of the new commentator’s more decorous opening, “Looking fucking awesome, and Danny fucks with some shit to get the Quaffle off first, apologies to Danielle who’s gonna have to fly like a cuntrocket to catch up —” 

With a jolt to the small intestine Harry spots Nick in the commentator’s booth, cackling and messing up Matt Fincham’s hair. Luna Lovegood appears to be perched on the side of the bannister, joined by several people Harry can’t quite recognise from far away. 

Niall is announcing loud enough to be heard for about ten rows around, which is unfortunate, as a few of the rows are filled with first-years. “— with a bloody stupid pass to his brother so it’s no wonder Slytherin has the Quaffle now — fuckin’ dickwagons —” 

“Hey, I’m gonna… Toilets,” says Harry vaguely. The boys blink at him. Harry grins for lack of better options. “Time to wee! Back later! Have good spleens!” 

Harry does an enthusiastic thumbs up and stumbles out of the row, apologising to so many Ravenclaws along the way that he accidentally apologises to a post by reflex. Harry’s pretty sure the post appreciates the courtesy, though. Poor post, no one talks to it. 

Halfway up the stairs to the commentator’s box, Harry remembers that he is a human blueberry Valentine. He pauses, looking down at his blue self. He doesn’t particularly want Nick’s friends to see him with heart-printed teeth this afternoon, or heart-printed wallpaper intestines. That would be a bit undignified. It’s a good thing he wears layers. Harry does a quick change, stripping the cursed shirt and stuffing it into his coat pocket. He takes the rest of the steps two at a time, miraculously not falling over once, and comes to a rest right outside the booth. 

 The new Quidditch commentator is a fifth-year Hufflepuff with curly dark hair and a truly impressive glower. Judging by her malevolent eyebrows, she seems not entirely pleased about her new post. Harry thinks this is sort of understandable, because so far as he can tell the booth is filled with adults who are more interested in snickering to each other than letting her focus on gameplay. 

“Hi,” says Harry, leaning hopefully in the doorway. Nick turns towards him, and Harry’s not sure what he did but he likes it because Nick’s eyes go a bit soft and woobly. 

“Hiya, Harry Styles,” says Nick and his woobly eyes. “You come to be a pest?” 

“Yep,” says Harry, grinning with all his dimples. 

“Come in then, Harold, doorways are often infested with nargles,” says Luna, twisting her long hair out of her face. “And I haven’t any antidote on me.” 

Matt Fincham blows air throw his lips in a _pfft_. “Nargles,” he scoffs, waving his wand over some part of the commentator’s equipment, making it glow alternating red and green and presumably also do something useful, as well. 

“Don’t be bitter, Matthew,” says Luna, “I’m sure the nargles would like to infest your head as well. They’re quite equal creatures” 

Harry smiles apologetically at the Hufflepuff commentator, who has turned one of her glares towards him. Out on the pitch, Danielle hurtles past the booth with the Quaffle, only to be intercepted deftly by Danny Riach in his blue robes. The crowd roars. Harry can make out the Ravenclaw side of the stands chanting, faintly. “Schopenhauer Circe Kant Spinoza! Come on ‘Claws, hit ‘em in the nosa!” 

Ravenclaws don’t seem nearly as interested in rectal humour as Slytherins and Gryffindors. 

Players in green and blue bolt by the window. The Hufflepuff adjusts her microphone, standing up to get a better view. “— putting the Slytherins ahead 150 to 75, as Peazer snatches the Quaffle, Riach hard on her tail —”

Harry snickers. “Hard on her tail,” he says, kicking Nick in the ankle. Nick laughs and forces him into a headlock. 

Out in the stands, the Ravenclaws are now chanting, “BEWARE OF OVEREMPHASIS, BEWARE OF OVEREMPHASIS.” 

“Oh, listen. They’re using my cheer, still,” says Luna, looking pleased. 

“Yes, we’re very proud,” says Finchy, reaching over the Hufflepuff to turn a dial. 

Ravenclaw scores, and everyone in the booth cheers except the irate Hufflepuff and Nick, who is booing vigorously into Finchy’s face. 

“Were all the rest of you in Ravenclaw?” asks Harry curiously, looking around the booth. 

Nick scoffs. “No, gross. Just Luna, Ian and Finchy. Aimee went to fancy American school that was all clean and had these metal boxes where you put all your stuff in. Fiona was in Hufflepuff, eating snacks and talking about her feelings, and LMC was a Slytherin.” 

Harry looks curiously at LMC, who is shooting Nick in the head with finger guns. 

Nick fends LMC the Slytherin off with one hand until she seems to tire of this, and goes back to flipping through a magazine, periodically holding something up to show Fiona the Hufflepuff. 

“Gin was supposed to come ‘round too, but she’s out in the stands scouting the way people hurtle about in the air,” continues Nick, “I think Neville’s out there too, probably.” 

“I miss Neville,” says Fiona the Hufflepuff wistfully, “He’s not like you jerks. Neville is a nice man. Neville respects the badger.”

Nick snorts. “Badger.” 

“Could’ve been worse,” notes Harry, “Could’ve been beaver.” 

Nick laughs harder at this. Fiona the Hufflepuff makes a face at Harry. “You’re just as bad as he is,” she says, rolling her eyes.  

“Neville has to mind the hormonal beasts,” says Professor Phillips, examining the tips of her orange hair. “No offence, Styles.” 

Harry looks out into the stands, where his dormmates are a bright cerulean blot in a sea of Ravenclaws wearing ordinary overcoats and jeans. Louis appears to be slapping Liam about the head in excitement. 

“That’s alright,” says Harry. He thinks the next time Nick opens the Patronus betting pool, he’ll put a few galleons on monkeys. 

Nick squints at Harry for a minute. “Harold,” he says slowly, smirking, “You changed before you came up here, didn’t you?” 

“No,” says Harry shiftily, shoving his shirt further out of sight in his coat pocket. 

“You did,” says Nick, his face growing a giant shit-eating grin. “You did that blue thing like your boys. No, not just that, it was definitely _your idea_. It was, wasn’t it. It definitely was.” 

“Wasn’t,” says Harry stoutly. It was. It was definitely his idea. 

“Was _so_. C’mon you, give it here, where’re you hiding it?” Nick comes at him handsy and fast, padding him down in the search of the cursed regalia. Harry giggles uncontrollably, trying to bat him away. It doesn’t work, mostly because Harry doesn’t want it to work. Harry ends up tucked half under Nick’s arm whilst Nick makes a mess of his hair, wherein the cursed shirt is definitely not hiding. 

“Very professional, Nicholas,” says Fincham with a snort.

Nick gives him the finger. “Just for you, babe.” One arm clamping Harry tight against him, he uses the other to fish out the hexed fabric. He lets out a bark of triumphant laughter, like a satisfied seal. “HA! Told you. I win.” 

Nick lets go and Harry stumbles a bit, finding his balance. He tries not to feel a bit disappointed at the loss of contact, but he can’t help it. He shakes out his hair to hide his face. 

“Shouldn’t we be, like, watching Quidditch?” asks Ian the Ravenclaw, watching Nick delight over the charmed garment. Professor Phillips — Aimee? — snorts and kisses Ian the Ravenclaw on the cheek, quite close to the mouth. 

Harry looks out at the pitch, where streaks of blue and green are whizzing past. The Hufflepuff commentator is saying something about a fumble. Harry has absolutely no idea who’s winning. 

Nick shoves the shirt in front of Harry’s face. “Go on, then, Styles. Show these nice people what those mean old Slytherins did to you.” 

LMC snorts. 

Dutifully, Harry sheds his coat and slides the sleeves over his t-shirt. Looking down he can see the heart pattern spread slowly over his body, sweeping from his torso down over forearms to his fingernails and down his jeans to envelope his trainers. He fixes his (blue) hair and does a little twirl. “Good, right?” he asks, basking in the glow of Nick’s megawatt laugh. 

“Gorgeous, Harry. Fantastic,” agrees Nick, and Harry’s stomach does a pleased burble. He tries not to glow too obviously. 

“That’s incredible,” says LMC the Slytherin, her face immobile despite the clear admiration in her voice, “We should give it to Henry.” 

“We _should_ ,” agrees Fiona the Hufflepuff, “He’d love it.” 

“I would wear that,” agrees Luna, “You look very handsome as a valentine, Harold.” 

Harry preens. 

“Stop that, Lovegood, I’ll hex your hair into fizzywhigs,” says Nick. 

“I think fizzywhigs would suit me,” says Luna serenely. 

Ian the Ravenclaw and Professor Phillips are now full on snogging in the corner. Harry is finding it hard to think of Professor Phillips as Professor Phillips when she’s snogging someone in a monopolised Quidditch booth. He is also finding it hard not to think about snogging when there is snogging in a monopolised Quidditch booth. Life is filled with trials. 

“So is that what the kids are doing, these days?” asks Fiona the Hufflepuff, “Weird fashion hexing?” 

Nick makes a face that seems to communicate a great deal more to Fiona the Hufflepuff than to Harry. “Mostly,” he says, doing the so-so hand waggle. 

“Sometimes, there’s regular hexing,” says Harry, mostly to contribute something. 

“Fun,” drawls LMC the Slytherin. 

“It’s okay,” says Harry, feeling a bit awkward. 

“Give that blouse here,” demands Nick, making grabby hands, “I want to see if my bum turns blue.”  

Well, now Harry doesn’t feel awkward, but he also is thinking about Nick’s bum. His trials truly are vast, and unappreciated. He shrugs the shirt off for Nick anyway. 

— 

Harry lingers in the commentator’s booth with Nick and his friends right until the end of the match, chatting and messing about and making a pest of himself. Harry _means_ to pay attention to the game. He also means to only stay for about a half hour. He also means not to flirt with Nick too outrageously. Harry means to do a lot of things. 

Ravenclaw loses 190 to 325, and after the game is called Harry reluctantly parts from the booth to join up with the rest of Gryffindor 7th, all of whom look absolutely tragic. 

“They’ve lapped us,” says Liam sadly, “We’re behind in the rankings now. And we’re still dead last in the House Cup, too.” 

“Those Quidditch points put Slytherin in first for fucking everything,” mutters Louis, “We have to beat Hufflepuff by at least 300 to have any hope of staying in this thing.” 

“Those dicks,” agrees Leigh-Anne darkly. 

“It’ll be okay,” says Harry, “You have better Chasers than Hufflepuff.” 

“True, we _are_ incredible,” says Perrie, wiping imaginary dust off of her shoulders, “We’ll get the points. Hufflepuff barely got 90 on Ravenclaw in November and their Keeper is pretty shit.” 

“Definitely,” agrees Zayn, lighting up a cigarette. 

When asked about his loss, Danny Riach just shrugs and says that they had an alright game, and he was looking forward to strategising more before the next one. 

Louis looks at Danny like he is speaking a particularly obscure dialect of Mermish. “Spleens,” he says, shaking his head, “I fucking _told_ you about spleens.” 

“Someone is never getting into Viking heaven,” agrees Liam, wisely. 

Poor Frankenliam. Harry wonders what Liam would have been like, if he hadn’t been sorted into a dorm that hadn’t had Louis in it. 

— 

The Gryffindor common room is not somber in sorrow, because the Gryffindor common room is never somber in anything. The Gryffindor common room is, almost without exception, loud. Harry, Louis, Liam and Niall have claimed the prime spots by the fire, all of them doing coursework except for Louis. Louis is pretending to do coursework whilst he is actually writing his next Quidditch captain speech in murderous stick figure cuneiform. 

Halfway through a chapter on Muggle governments, Harry looks up at the creak of the portrait hole to see Zayn hoisting himself through the opening. 

“Got the password,” says Zayn, dropping down beside Harry. 

Louis’s eyes are their own personal _lumos_. “Bless you, Malik, bless your whorish ways.” 

“I literally just asked someone, Lou,” grumbles Zayn, but he seems pleased. 

Louis scrambles to his feet and pulls a stack of parchment out of his bag. He lays it in front of them. “Alright, lads, this’ll be a several-step process.” 

Harry looks down at the parchment, feeling sort of weird and uncomfortable. He doesn’t know exactly what the plan is, but it looks a little… much. 

“Lou,” he says tentatively, “Is this part… necessary?” Harry points to one of the notes. 

Louis shoots him a withering look. “ _Obviously_ ,” he says, “What is the _point_ of invasion if we don’t use fungus?” 

“This is _horrible_ ,” says Liam, “I can’t imagine living with this kind of destru — ooh, I think we should use _impedimenta_ , here.” 

Zayn and Louis lean over to see where Liam is pointing. Harry shoots Niall a plaintive look, and they have a brief eye-conversation that doesn’t go anywhere productive. 

“I’m just… I have to go the library,” says Harry, finally. He doesn’t have to go to the library. He leaves anyway.  

— 

Harry goes to Nick’s. He wasn’t sure he was intending to until he winds up staring at Nick’s door, wondering why Nick has a plain wooden door with a silver handle and a door knocker shaped like a lion instead of a portrait, or something. Doesn’t seem very secure. He wonders whether Nick has always had that lion knocker, because he’s not sure he’s ever noticed it before. It’s pretty cute. Harry doesn’t want to use it to knock because it would thunk the silver lion’s nose down on the wood. He knocks by hand, instead. 

“Hi,” he says, when Nick swings open the door. Nick is holding a giant bag of crisps and wobbling a little on his feet. 

“Hiya, Harry,” says Nick and his strop-banishing smile, “I’ve still loads of people over, you should come in — oh, you’re a student, aren’t you — Matthew Fincham?” Nick looks back into his rooms, calling out. 

“Yes, darling?” asks Finchy from somewhere inside. 

“Harry’s here, is he allowed in? You know things about… rules.” 

Matt appears behind Nick and waves his hand around. He’s wearing Harry’s hexed shirt, so his hand is blue and covered in hearts. “Sure. I don’t rules today, it’s my day of sorrow and yet also glory. Harry, Nick owes me 25 galleons.” 

Nick looks like he has been given quite a nice present on a day he was also stepped on by seven or eight hippogriffs, but he’s an optimist so he’s trying to focus on the bright side. He steps aside to let Harry in. “It’s true. I should never sport, Harold. I should have learned that last time.”

“Did you bet for Ravenclaw?” asks Harry, amused. 

“I did,” confirms Nick, leading Harry into the living room. “I thought, that Danny Riach, he’s quite laddy isn’t he. And I liked it how Finchy bet against his own team, and now here we are and you’ll have to pay for my arthritis potions because he’s fleeced me all out.” 

Nick’s living room is awash with people, so many so that there appear to be about three more sofas than normal. Harry supposes that, seeing as Finchy is a professor of Transfiguration, this makes more sense than just having everyone sit on the floor. Ian the Ravenclaw and Professor Phillips — Aimee — are reclined on a turquoise chaise lounge that Harry thinks used to be a lamp, their legs entwined. An overstuffed love-seat that reminds Harry of Nick’s school trunk is home to Luna, bewitching little bits of paper into illuminated butterflies, and Ginny Weasley, who is flipping through a Seekers Weekly. Fiona the Hufflepuff is perched on the arm, eating a sandwich. 

LMC the Slytherin looks up at Nick from the floor, where she’s tearing out pictures of Bebe Buell of the Broomstick Babes from a magazine. “Grim, you’re looking at me like you don't approve of my life choices but your massive bag of prawn cocktail crisps negates your authority.”

Nick snorts and sprawls out on the original sofa. The ur-sofa. “Please. I have no authority. A few days ago Pixie was weeing in Henry’s front garden whilst I chased a possum in the alley. Twenty-seven years old, chased a possum of a Tuesday night, that’s my life now.” 

Fiona the Hufflepuff sighs, looking wistfully at Luna’s paper butterflies. “I can’t believe it’s 2011 already.” 

“I can’t believe I’m twenty-nine,” says Aimee, picking the label off her lager. “I’ve done my eyeliner in quill… recently.” 

“Hello, Harold,” says Luna kindly, “Would you like a butterfly?” 

“Yes, please,” says Harry. He had been standing a bit uncomfortably behind Nick, but he thinks that’s a bit silly. He sits next to Nick on the ur-sofa, maintaining more distance than he would normally. 

Luna flicks her wand in his direction, and a host of parchment butterflies nest in Harry’s hair. He beams. 

“You look very nice, Harold,” says Luna. 

“Would you like a room?” asks Nick, a little petulantly into his crisps, “Alleyway? Darkened corner?” 

Luna smiles serenely at him. “I have a room, Nicholas,” she says, “It’s in North London, though, and I’m quite happy here for now.” 

“Socialising with profs,” marvels Ginny Weasley, tilting her head at Harry, “God, things have changed. Can you imagine doing that with ours? I mean, maybe the Slytherins did. Snape —” 

“We’re not talking about that,” says LMC, without looking up from Witch Weekly. 

“You’re grumpy when you’re the only Slytherin,” says Fiona, but it’s affectionate. “We should have invited Henry.” 

“I did,” says Nick, leaning almost imperceptibly towards Harry. Harry can tell, because every nerve of his body is finely attuned to the heat emanating from Nick’s skin. “He had some sort of fancy engagement, and he also said he’d rather eat paste than watch Quidditch.” 

“You people are so obsessed with your adolescent drama,” says Aimee, throwing a discarded jumper at Nick’s head. “No one cares.” 

“I do,” says Harry, a little quietly because he’s pretty sure it’s stupid. Without looking, Nick pokes him really hard in the knee. 

“Yeah well we all know why you care,” says Aimee, smirking, “Gin, pass me the Ogden’s Old, would you?” 

Harry does his best not to turn red like he’s just put on one of his cursed shirts. 

“Aimee didn’t have a house system and it’s made her old and bitter,” says Nick, dignified. 

Harry never had Aimee as a professor. She came to Hogwarts after he stopped taking Astronomy. He thinks it’s probably pretty full on. 

“Old, bitter and free of your emotional damage,” says Aimee. “I’m getting another drink.” 

“Me too,” says Nick, and struggles to his feet — using Harry’s knee incidentally along the way — to follow her. 

This, Harry realises, is the perfect time to resuscitate his cunning plan. “So, what — What _was_ Nick like, in school?” asks Harry. 

“Trouble,” says blue Matt Fincham, dropping into an armchair that had been a throw-pillow two minutes before. 

“I was what now?” asks Nick, easing back into his seat. Harry’s cunning plans need work. Nick passes Harry a butterbeer, flicking the cap open with his wand. Matt ignores him in favour of discussing the finer points of Hogwarts Quidditch with Ian the Ravenclaw. Nick looks over at Harry, his eyes going soft at the little paper animals in Harry’s hair. 

“Y’alright, Harry?” he asks, “Any reason why you’re not in your tower?” 

Harry looks down at his butterbeer and scrunches up the label. He’d sort of forgotten about why he’d come over. “Just, um… The boys, you know. They’re taking it a bit hard, that we’re last in the House Cup and we’re behind in Quidditch, so.” 

Nick looks like he’s torn between changing the topic of conversation and petting Harry’s hair. Harry is pro hair petting, personally. “Y’know, you could say something to them, if they were getting all… Hexy-hexy.” 

“Hexy-hexy?” 

Nick laughs. “You know what I mean, Harry. Don’t mock me, it’s my day of woe. I’m penniless now.” 

“And I have to pay for your arthritis potion?” 

“Yes,” says Nick, sniffing in a dignified way, “You’re to make my ageing self comfortable.” 

“I could make your ageing self comfortable,” says Harry, waggling his eyebrows. Nick swats at him, and they have a brief slapping fight that makes Harry feel altogether better about everything. There’s still a little corner of Harry’s mind that’s a bit heavy and weird, but it’s relatively easy to ignore. 

— 

Liam and Zayn both manage corporeal Patronuses the week before Hogsmeade Doom Weekend of Death and Detention. Liam’s horse wins Harry 10 galleons that Zayn’s kite immediately loses him back, which should teach Harry not to bet based on jokes. 

“Get it,” Harry says, as they make their way through the dungeons, “A fox, ‘cos you’re foxy?” 

“Yeah, Harry, ’s a good one,” says Zayn in a monotone. 

The Slytherin common room is unchanged from their last visit, from the breasted merpeople in the lake to the twinkling fairy lights, to the first-years Louis has to scare out of the room with explosive, intestine-related threats. 

Louis turns to them with arms akimbo, eyebrows pulled low over his fierce gaze. “Alright, lads, plan. Harry, you’re on watch. You remember the secret signal, and you have to trash the room, yeah? Zayn and Liam, you’re on bathrooms. Niall, you and I are on dorms.” Louis grins, his teeth gleaming in the greenish light from the lake. “It is our time, boys. It is _our time_.” 

Harry thinks this might be what Nick meant, when he said ‘hexy-hexy’. 

They get the doors wrong a few times, but the four of them finally disappear into the recesses of Slytherin and leave Harry alone in the common room. Something big and furry twines around Harry’s legs, a warm weight against his shins. He looks down. 

“Hi, Butterbeer,” says Harry, picking up the oversized cat with a heft of his arms, “I guess it’s just you and me, for now.” 

“Mraow,” says Butterbeer. 

“Are you going to help me trash the common room?” asks Harry, nuzzling his face against the cat’s fur, “You are, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” 

Harry doesn’t want to put Butterbeer down right away because she is very comforting, arms-wise, so he does most of his trashing with his feet. He knocks the cushions off of all of the armchairs, and kicks the side tables so that they’re not within arm-reach of the sofas. He wants to turn the sofas over, too, but they have peoples’ coursework all over them. Harry has to put Butterbeer down, then, so that he can move the coursework to another sofa before he overturns it. 

He thinks he’s done quite a good job with the trashing, really. Many things in the common room are not where they used to be. Now they are in different places. 

“What should I do next, Butterbeer?” asks Harry, kneeling down to vigorously scratch the calico’s ears. 

“Mraow,” says Butterbeer. 

“Yeeees,” says Harry, beaming, “You are absolutely right. Let’s _truly_ mess this place up!” 

Harry goes to the stacks of albums by the fireplace and sorts them by genre, instead of alphabetically. He cackles, pleased. Now it will be much more difficult for them to find Elixir’s debut album. They’ll have to look in ‘pop’ instead of in the e’s. Harry is a genius. 

— 

“You are the worst room trasher I’ve ever encountered in my entire life,” says Louis during breakfast the next morning. 

“I’m a _brilliant_ room trasher,” says Harry, sullenly. He gets a comfort muffin. They don’t understand him. It’s going to be _so hard_ for the Slytherins to find Hortense and the Muggles, because Harry didn’t put their album in pop even though it gets a lot of radio play, he put it in _indie_ pop. 

“Hey,” says Zayn, suddenly, “Look at Slytherin.” 

They all crane their heads to see. The Slytherin table looks suspiciously light of humans, which would be normal on a Sunday breakfast, but it’s Monday. Everyone should be at meals. Even Nick is at meals, sleepily tucking into eggs at the staff table. 

“It’s fine,” says Louis, but he doesn’t sound sure. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” agrees Liam, patting Louis’s arm. 

“It’s probably not fine,” says Niall, matter-of-factly. He bites loudly at an apple. 

After their uneasy breakfast, Harry and Niall tromp through two feet of snow to reach the far paddock for Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid stands at its gate, breathing out steam with half a dead cow on his shoulders. Harry feels sort of sad about the cow, and also about how he is doing his best not to notice that half of the Slytherins are missing from class. 

“One of my favourite days, today,” says Hagrid cheerfully, “Gotta wait until NEWT level, bu’ these creatures are some of my absolute favourites.” He lifts the catch to the gate and leads them across the snow right up along the edge of the icy recesses of the Forbidden Forest that borders the paddock.  For the first time Harry notices that the fence doesn’t actually include part of the Forbidden Forest in its confines: it just leads in and then stops, abruptly, a few metres beyond the trees. 

Hagrid turns around and looks at the class, adjusting the weight of the carcass. “I’m gonna call ‘em now, they like ter know it’s me.” With a heave of his barrel chest, Hagrid releases a high, screeching call into the snowy trees. He looks out into the forest, expectantly. 

Nothing happens. A few branches sway, slightly, in the breeze. 

“Ah, there we are,” says Hagrid, grinning at a cluster of yew trees. “Here are a couple. Righ’, so put yer hand up if yeh can see ‘em.” 

Harry looks around. Perhaps he is selectively blind. Everyone is staring at Hagrid blankly. Perhaps selective blindness is catching. The field behind them is white with snow, the forest ahead empty and dark. Harry looks at Hagrid, who seems unfazed by the epidemic of selective blindness. 

“Ah, well tha’s nice ter see, isn’t it.” says Hagrid, his teeth blinding in his massive beard. “Back in the day, we had half the class. Now, don’ be frightened at this bit. This is normal.” 

Hagrid heaves the carcass onto the snow, and then backs up. The red of the cow’s blood is stark against the white for a moment, until suddenly the body starts to shake and shiver. Great strips of meat peel away, hanging midair until they jolt and vanish, exposing the bones beneath. 

Harry makes a small, frightened sound in the back of his throat and grabs Niall’s hand. 

Hagrid looks over at the carcass proudly, and then back towards his terrified students. “Any of yeh work it ou’, then?” 

Eleanor tentatively raises her hand, eyes still glued to the disappearing carcass. “Is it thestrals?” she asks. 

Hagrid beams and claps his hands, a one man-slash-giant round of applause. “Tha’s right, very nice Eleanor, 10 points ter Slytherin. Thestrals! Anyone go’ any more information there?” 

“They can only be seen by people who’ve witnessed death,” says Danny Riach. He’s squinting at the disappearing carcass, as if he can bring the creatures into focus that way. 

Everything is making more sense now. Harry relaxes his grip on Niall’s hand. Niall does not relax his own.

Hagrid nods solemnly. “Tha’s righ’ too. We’ve got the only tame herd of thestrals in Great Britain righ’ here  at Hogwarts, an’ they’re dead useful, aren’ they.” Hagrid looks affectionately at the patch of empty air where, presumably, a thestral (or thestrals?) is (are?) stripping the meat from the carcass’s bones. 

Harry has read ahead in his Care of Magical Creatures book. He remembers the illustration of thestrals, their wide bat wings and white, glittering eyes. There weren’t any photographs, because they don't show up on film. 

“Can we touch them?” asks Harry, curious. 

“You’re mad,” says Niall, admiringly. 

Hagrid gives him a proud look. “Sure thing, Harry. Mos’ people say they don’ want ter, since they’re supposed ter be bad luck an’ all, but they’re nice creatures, really. C’mon up here.” 

Hagrid grips Harry’s arm with one massive hand and leads him forward, through empty space until — _there_. It’s nothing, it’s clear, thin air — Harry can see the trees of the forest beyond, and eagles nesting in the high branches — but there’s something solid, almost slippery under his fingers. He closes his eyes and strokes the skin there, picturing big bat wings, a long bony face. He can feel knobs of spine underneath sleek fur, and there’s a pressure at his side suddenly, nudging. 

“He likes yeh!” crows Hagrid, “He’s headbuttin’ Harry, everyone. Sign of affection, tha’.” 

Harry beams. 

“Mad,” says Niall. 

Harry tries to remain very still for the rest of the class, trying not to scare off his new thestral friend. Harry learns that his new thestral friend is called Tenebrus and he was the first born in the Forest, that thestrals are attracted to the scent of blood, and that they are loyal, which is something they share with Harry, and that they have very attuned senses of direction, which is not something they share with Harry. Harry thinks it’s good he’s met Tenebrus, because friends should compliment each other. 

 They discuss the politics of what constitutes ‘witnessing death’ for the remainder of class but Harry’s only half listening to the debate, busy trying to make out the features of Tenebrus’s face. Harry can’t see the thestral, but he likes him. He wonders whether Tenebrus gets lonely, since so few people know he’s there. 

On their way out of the paddock Harry notices that next to a fence post, someone has abandoned a tin bucket filled halfway with scraps of meat. He looks at it, for a minute, mind slowly churning. It’s not until Harry and Niall are halfway through their battle with new snow to reach the castle that he makes the connection. 

—

The missing Slytherins don’t appear for lunch, and neither does Nick. Harry ignores the former as best he can, and goes to visit Nick’s office to check on the latter. The plaque on Nick’s office door has proclaimed him Professor of Defence Against the Dark Farts all year, and shows no signs of changing. 

Harry knocks and opens the door without waiting for an answer. 

Nick is inside, marking a stack of essays with giant, expressive doodles. “Oh, hello, Harold,” he says, looking up. 

Wizards of Wormwood Place plays quietly on the wireless in the corner. Nick is obsessed with Wizards of Wormwood Place. Harry has heard Nick have very long, involved conversations about the characters’ lives with multiple third-years. 

“So,” says Harry, leaning in the doorway and formulating his phrasing in his head, “I was thinking, right, all seabirds that have an understanding of morality should have a friend. Because… _one good tern_ deserves another.”

Nick cackles. “Involved, Harry, like it.”  

Harry beams. He spent about an hour on that last night and no one has appreciated it properly. He keeps having to explain the spelling. “Thanks,” he says, throwing himself into the chair he privately thinks of his. “So, you weren’t at lunch.” 

Nick shrugs. “Was out in Hogsmeade with some friends. There’s a new place that just opened. It’s wicked, highly recommend.” 

“Cool,” says Harry. He knows what he wants to ask Nick, but doesn’t know how. It occurs to Harry suddenly that Nick tells a lot of stories but none of them are anything but jokes. 

“What’s up, Styles? You have this whole… face think happening.” Nick makes a finger wiggly motion around his own face, as a demonstration. He turns towards him, eyebrows furrowing in sudden concern. “You alright? Is this about the thing with the Slytherins? They’re gonna be alright, yeah?” 

Harry blinks, confused. “What? No. What? No, I wanted to —” He shifts in his seat nervously. “So, Grim…” 

“So, Harold,” says Nick, looking perplexed. 

Harry grabs a dragon paperweight off Nick’s desk to mess with. “So, Grim, we were at Care of Magical Creatures today, right, which — I made a friend today, actually — he was sick— I mean, not a person friend, a creature friend? — So, we were doing Care of Magical Creatures, right, and Hagrid had this, like, cow carcass. Which is sort of sad, you know, because cows are nice, but I know animals have to eat and stuff and so long as you kill them humanely, it’s alright? But it was still sad. So he had this cow carcass, right, and he took us into the Forbidden Forest —”

Nick’s nervous concerned brows are now almost entirely nervous. “Harry —” he says, and Harry knows Nick’s going to try to divert his attention, so he just keeps talking. 

“So he takes us into the Forbidden Forest, right, and he puts the cow thing down, and he says, hey, can any of you see them?” 

Nick has one long hand over his face now, rubbing his brows. He looks a little pained. 

Harry adjusts the wings on the paperweight, making them flap around a bit. “And none of us can see anything. It’s like, nothing’s there, right? I mean, air, but, nothing else. And then — right, there was the carcass, and it was like… disappearing? — And it was thestrals. That’s what the lesson was, and my new creature friend, he’s a thestral.” 

“I see,” says Nick, looking anywhere but at Harry. He’s trying to sound nonchalant and failing. It’s almost like Nick is guilty, like he’s in Headmistress McGonagall’s office getting in trouble for something.

Harry persists, fumbling. “And it made me think about — remember, like, sometime last October? I ran into you out by the forest, and you said you were gonna take up butchery.” 

Nick is shifting in his seat now, his skin several shades paler than it was when Harry came in. 

“You were in that paddock that goes into the Forbidden Forest, Nick. Like, with the thestrals. Where they are.” 

Nick doesn’t say anything. 

Harry just barges on blindly, like a Gryffindor’s battle plan. “Nick, you can see them, can’t you? Thestrals?” 

“Yeah,” says Nick, finally, after a long moment. “Yeah, but it’s no big deal, Harry. Loads of people can.” 

“Loads of people who have seen people die,” Harry points out weakly. 

“Well,” says Nick. He looks a little lost. Harry can see him start to change the subject — probably to Wizards of Wormwood Place, or whatever he was talking about before about the Slytherins — and intervenes. 

“What happened?” he asks. Harry can tell Nick just wants to run, but Harry’s in the way of the door and he can’t help pressing the bruise. “Was it something from the DMLE?” 

“No. Yes. I don’t want to talk about this, Harry,” says Nick, shortly, “How was dinner? Your boys get in any scraps with opposing houses? Spot of landing anyone in the hospital wing? That’s been going around lately, hasn’t it, thought you were going to keep your boys out of too much shit?” 

“No — what?  No, but Nick — I mean, you probably should,” says Harry, “Talk about it. I mean… that’s kind of a big, thing, isn’t it?” 

Nick sighs sort of strongly, like he’s hoping the air he exhales could blow the conversational topic away. “Hey, I’m not the only one who can see ‘em here, Harry. I reckon half the staff can, probably more. Most of us can. Look, I really don’t want to talk about this, alright?” 

“Why can half the staff see them?” Harry can’t seem to stop himself. He’s got too much momentum now, it’s like he’s rolling down a hill. “Was it — was it the war, or —”

“ _Harry_.” 

Harry stops short. 

Nick’s jaw is clenching in these short, stabby pulses. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, alright, and I’m not going to. There’s enough going on today, alright? Now I… I’ve got friends coming over, I’m just going to go. Alright?” Nick gets to his feet and stuffs the essays he’d been marking into his bag, all haphazard so they’ll probably have weird crease marks. “I’ll see you later.” 

He rushes out of the room and Harry stares down at the paperweight in his hands. It’s still not as cute as Hubert, but it’s not _un_ cute. 

“Sorry,” he tells it. He puts it back on Nick’s desk. 

— 

Harry worries about his conversation with Nick solidly until dinner. He intends to continue worrying about it well beyond, but is thwarted by bigger concerns when Matt Fincham pulls them away from the Gryffindor table, saying that Headmistress McGonagall has requested their presence in her office. Harry’s heart starts pounding like a drug-addicted doxy. 

Harry has never been in the Headmistress’s office. It’s intimidating, all high ceilings and bookshelves, scores of distinguished-looking portraits blinking solemnly down at him from the walls. He hangs behind Liam, pressed close enough to try to get some reassurance. 

Headmistress McGonagall stands from her desk. She’s one of the only professors Harry’s never seen out of her pressed black staff robes. Her mouth is pinched tight like a coiled snail. 

“This morning, several of our seventh-year Slytherin students were admitted into the Hospital Wing with acute fungal infections. Can any of you tell me why?” Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cracks like a whip. Harry leans even closer to Liam, wondering if it’d be alright if he tried to hold his hand. 

Louis steps forward, positioning himself in between the rest of them and McGonagall. _Please don’t say vengeance_ , thinks Harry fervently, _Please don’t say vengeance._

“Vengeance,” says Louis stalwartly. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” says McGonagall, throwing one hand up in the air. She removes her glasses and begins to polish them testily. “Don’t be stupid, boy. That’s not vengeance. You put fungus in the Slytherin showers; that’s idiotic, childish nonsense. You put people in danger with your little stunt.” 

They all fidget, guiltily. Harry wants to throw up and then hide, or hide and then throw up, or hide whilst throwing up. Something in those combinations. He fights the impulse to bury his head in Liam’s shoulderblade. 

McGonagall slides her glasses back onto her face, looking disdainfully over the rims. “I’m extremely disappointed in you all. You’ve shamed your house today, and I’m shocked to have to put Gryffindor into the negative for the House Cup competition for the first time in 50 years.” 

Harry’s stomach curls up in shame like a hedgehog. He’s glad he didn’t get a chance to eat much for dinner, because if he had he’d be more concerned about his hedgehog stomach rejecting steak and kidney pie all over McGonagall’s carpet. 

“You’ve each lost Gryffindor 25 points and have earned yourself a week’s detention. Now get out of my office, and I don’t want to see any of you in here again.” 

They shuffle down the stairs and out into the corridor silently, none of them looking at each other. Harry feels so bad he wants to sink through the floor like Nearly Headless Nick. They stand in a circle for a minute, quietly. Harry feels like he’s about to cry. 

“Haz,” says Niall, finally, nudging him in the side, “Didn’t you say you had a joke, you wanted to tell?” 

Harry brightens minutely. “Oh, yeah. Did you hear the joke about the fungus?” He looks around. Zayn’s face is completely closed off. Liam looks like Harry feels — like a kicked crup — and Louis seems quietly furious. “I could tell it to you, but I think it might need time to grow. On you. Grow on you. Get it? Because… fungus?” 

They all groan and hit him a bit, but Harry can’t help but notice that the silence isn’t quite as heavy after that. 

— 

Thursday is terrible. The Slytherins aren’t talking to them, and a couple of people are still in the Hospital Wing, Harry doesn’t see Nick once, and Neville Longbottom keeps giving them these sad, disappointed looks, like a mum. They don’t talk much all day, and that night Harry sleeps in Zayn’s bed and lets Zayn snore all over him, for the comfort.

On Friday morning, Harry isn’t sure whether he should turn up for DADA early, after his and Nick’s weird conversation, but he does anyway. Harry has enough to worry about with his shame and detention to have to worry about Nick, too. Nick is just going to have to quietly deal with whatever his thestral problems are because he has to be Harry’s friend right now, and Harry is prepared to pester him into it. 

At first glance, Harry is tempted to assume that the fungus has spread into Nick’s classroom as well. At the front of the room, Nick is slumped down with his head on his desk. He’s wearing the hoodie he’d only last week deemed far too studenty to teach in, and is making periodic groans in the back of his throat like Onion Crisp does when a cat she doesn’t like comes into the common room. 

“Hullo,” says Harry, to the toppled pile of hoodie once known as Nick.  “You missed breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” 

“Don’t… words,” says Nick, his voice scraping out hoarsely, putting one hand up like a stop signal. “I am not kidding, I will genuinely throw up all over your trainers. Genuinely. I threw up all over _my_ trainers this morning. Future me is going to swat me on the nose and have me sit in the naughty corner.” 

Harry pointedly doesn’t think about naughty corners. Instead, he thinks he should probably be a bit upset, seeing as Nick had blown him off before and Harry’s had a terrible week. Harry had been planning on bullying Nick into bettering their continued friendship, but Nick just looks so pathetic. “Poor Grim,” says Harry, “d’you need a coffee?” 

“More than life,” grunts Nick, “Stop being nice to me. I don’t deserve it and I’ll throw up, and then I’ll deserve it even less.” 

Harry chooses one of the twelve neglected mugs on Nick’s desk and does a refreshing charm. It’s only going to be half a cup, because Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration has no patience for lazy people and no heart for the hungover, but it’ll do. 

Nick gropes for it without raising his head, his hand jumping around the desk like a perplexed tarantula. 

“Gave it the big one, last night, then?” asks Harry, pushing the mug into the arc of Nick’s perplexed tarantula hand. 

“Biggest,” says Nick, dragging his head up so he can tilt some of the lukewarm liquid into his mouth. “I heard about your little shower thing, by the way.  I — oh shit — christ on a crisp I have to teach in fifteen minutes.” 

“Yup,” says Harry. He hoists himself up onto Nick’s desk, moving his dragon paperweight, three mugs and two empty packets of Chocolate Frogs out of the way. “Too bad you don’t teach, like, History of Magic. Don’t have much hangover problems there.” 

“Got a T in History of Magic,” says Nick, head back on the table. “T is for Troll. I have the historical knowledge of something that uses clubs as primary communication.” 

“Louis thinks clubs do pretty good communicating,” says Harry, “Where’d you go last night? Billywig?” 

“Nah, London, I can only assume,” says Nick. “There was Floo Powder all over my living room so we must’ve gone somewhere. I’ll have to ask Gin and Luna. They’re still asleep on my sofa, dozy fuckers. Don’t have real jobs. Just lie in and say things about Bludgers and flying whatsits occasionally. I hate them. I can’t be friends with them anymore.” 

Harry has spent the last three or four minutes wondering whether he’s allowed to pet Nick’s hair a bit. He throws caution to the wind and does so, smoothing Nick’s bedraggled quiff with one hand. It’s soft. Nick makes a sound like a sexually satisfied meercat, which is a weird thing to think about someone you’re attracted to. 

“Sorry for, you know,” says Harry, hesitantly, “If that was why —”  

Nick’s shoulders tense up. “It’s not just — don’t,” he says weakly. 

Harry doesn’t. He keeps his hand where it is, stroking Nick carefully like he’s cat who might bite, until class is about to start and it might be a bit weird for people to walk in and find him petting their DADA professor’s hair. 

Nick raises his head with immense difficulty. “The world makes no sense, Harold,” he says, plaintively. 

Harry looks down at Nick’s desk. His glasses are off to the side, rather than on his face. Harry is pretty sure glasses are helpful to those who wear them, especially when those people are as poorly sighted as Nick is. He picks them off the stack of Witch Weekly magazines (“Elixir of Love: These Boys Will Summon Your Heart!”) and slides the frames over Nick’s nose, carefully. 

Nick gropes for them, adjusting around his ears. “Glasses are the coffee of the face,” he says, relieved.

Harry snickers. “And is headache potion the pumpkin juice of the liver?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry, that’s Wit-Sharpening Potion. And the world sucks, because I don’t have any. Old Sluggy hates me and he’s 900 years old. He should retire and we should get a new Potions Master who understands about alcohol and my feelings.” 

Harry pats Nick on the head. He’s really a very cute hungover person. 

Nick scrunches his nose up at him. “You are entirely too young and fresh. I can hardly look at you. I feel even more disgusting and ancient at the sight of your boyish face. Now go get your shit settled, I have to be a human being who functions in about four minutes.” 

“Still want me to come round, after lessons?” asks Harry, tentatively. “I mean, I don’t have to. But, if you want.” 

“‘Course,” says Nick, and Harry’s insides melt all over his ribs, which is gross. Nick gives him a patchwork grin. “Unless you have one of them detentions. We should talk about that, by the by.” 

Harry makes a face. “As soon as we talk about why you were totally fucked last night.” 

Nick makes a competing face. “I was totally fucked last night because I’m alive, Harold, and aware of my own mortality.” 

Students start to trickle in, most of them chattering loudly, and Harry does his best to resist the urge to shush all of them vigorously like Madame Pince. He goes to get his things out of his bag, leaving Nick to attempt adulthood and continue to be aware of his own mortality. 

“Grimmy looks like shite,” says Niall, sliding into the seat beside Harry. 

“No he doesn’t,” says Harry loyally. “He’s just a bit tired.” 

Niall tilts his head and looks across the room at Nick, who’s looking through a book with an air of someone who is about to be given the Dementor’s Kiss, but has had a while to adjust to the idea and has made sure to put his affairs in order and say goodbye to his friends and family. “I mean he’s always a sort of weird looking bloke, but today he’s more like a weird looking vampire.” 

Harry glares at Niall with the power of a billion glares. “He’s not weird looking.” 

Niall blinks at him. “What’s wrong with you, creepy? ’S like you’re giving me the horn.” 

Harry’s life is suffering. “It’s just my face,” he says grumpily. 

Liam takes the chair on Harry’s other side and starts setting out his notes. “You should work on that, you know. People get the wrong idea.” 

“Why?” says Harry suggestively, stroking the inside of Liam’s thigh and getting up close to Liam’s face. “You want to get the right one?” 

Liam just rolls his eyes, because Louis is a bad influence and has bred all the entertaining jumpiness out of him. Harry fondly remembers the days when that could have made him nearly fall off his chair. 

“All the Slytherins aren’t back yet,” Louis notes, gloomy. Harry turns around. Zayn is drawing something on his textbook, pointedly not paying attention. Louis looks a little nervous, which is uncharacteristic. 

“They’re okay,” says Harry, “Probably.” 

At the front of the class, Nick has pulled himself to his feet and is doing a pretty decent impression of a human being. 

“Hiya, pals,” he says, with a vague approximation of cheer, “Let’s make this a lovely, quiet little class today, eh? Do a some nice non-bangy spells. I know I said we’d do _mutatio_ today, but I’m feeling all quiet and soothing. Patronus take four, yeah?” 

The mood of the classroom is slightly disheartened, but seems to warm up as the lesson goes on. Within twenty minutes Louis has a shining raccoon gambolling around his head, but Harry has nothing but white mist. It’s going to be Harry and white mist forever. He will have to run off into the sunset with white mist. He will carry white mist over the threshold of their new home. He will grow old together with white mist, which is disappointing for many reasons one of which being that white mist will never age and that will just make Harry look weirder. 

Harry is the only person in the class who hasn’t achieved a corporeal Patronus by the end of the lesson, and he feels like he may as well be fungus himself. He has about as much use, magically, apparently. 

“Niall, what did you think about?” he asks, as Niall packs his bag, “For your Patronus?” 

“Dinner,” says Niall. 

Harry is a fungus of depression. He is a mushroom of uselessness.

“Oi, Harold, a minute?” Nick beckons Harry back into the room. “So, you’re having a spot of Patronus problems, aren’t you?” 

Harry looks down at his feet. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “But I’m shit at DADA, everyone knows that.” 

Nick sighs. “Harry, you’re not shit at it. Well, you’re shit at part of it, but this isn’t going to be one of those parts.” 

“Clearly it is, though,” says Harry, getting frustrated. He’s tried for _days_ to get this stupid spell and nothing, nothing, just white mist forever. He’d put a ring on it to make it official, but white mist probably can’t wear rings. 

Nick tugs at one of Harry’s curls, helplessly. “Don’t make that face, Harold. You’ll make all the gargoyles weep, and no one wants to see a weeping gargoyle. They’re undignified. I think you’re just going about it the wrong way.” 

“I’ve followed _all_ of the instructions,” Harry protests, waving an arm at the diagrams on the board next to the betting pool. His name is the only one not filled out. It’s embarrassing. He has a shame-fire-breathing dragon in his insides; he is a fungus of despair. “I’m just shit, alright, I’m just _shit_.” 

“Harry, love, it’s — here. Sit down, you’re making me sad. It’s alright. Listen, this spell is a natural fit for you. I really think it is. The trick is, it’s not an offence spell. You’ve been thinking about it like that, like a weapon, haven’t you?” 

Harry considers this. He supposes he has, picturing his misty Patronus as a sort of sword to be wielded, a vaporous vengeance demon or something. 

Nick puts his hands on Harry’s knees, leaning in, eyes wide. “See, that’s the thing. It’s not a weapon, Harry. It’s a _protector_. It’s a shield.” 

Something rearranges in Harry’s mind, his brain shuffling everything around. “Oh,” he says, quiet, looking down at where Nick’s long fingers splay over his knees. 

Nick backs up, abruptly. “D’you want to try it again, maybe? I can shut my eyes, if you like.” 

“Okay,” says Harry, hesitantly. “Yeah. Shut your eyes.” Nick does. Harry takes a minute to look at him like that, the sweeping circles underneath his eyelids and the broken blood vessels in the skin around his nose. Harry really likes him. He likes him so much. 

Harry closes his own eyes, letting his heart expand in his chest, thinking about shields and protectors and friends, letting the warmth of it drown out the anxiety that has plagued him all day. “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” says Harry, for the thousandth time. Magic surges along his wand arm, a burst of tingling heat through his body. He opens his eyes. 

“Nick,” he says, quietly, “Nick, Nick, look.” 

Nick opens his eyes. Harry’s Patronus is standing in front of him on wobbly legs, nudging at Nick’s hip with its nose. 

“Well, would you look at this,” says Nick, in a quiet, rusty sort of voice. “Very nice, Harry.” 

“Thanks,” says Harry. His Patronus looks a little like a wonky deer, with long, knobbly legs like Harry’s own. It’s sort of silly looking, but sweet. 

“Some kind of antelope, looks like. You herbivore, you.” Nick tentatively touches the Patronus’s weird ears. Harry’s some kind of antelope nudges against Nick’s hand, like Hubert had, that night in the Horny Hippogriff. Nick looks a bit overwhelmed. 

They stay like that, for a little while. Harry watches them, holding his elbows and breathing, his heart feeling a way he has no name for. 


	7. Harry Styles and the Petrificus in Poor Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which books are Just Friends, the Valentine's Hulk comes too late and jellylegs jinxes are fun for friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other titles considered include Harry Styles and the This Would Be Over If I Was Doing It JK Rowling Style, Harry Styles and the Gryles Part Probably, Harry Styles and Some Magic Bullshit #yolo, and Harry Styles and the I Had No Idea This Fic Was Going To Be This Long SOS. Thanks to everyone who let me whine about this to them (Chex, Catie, Katie), and especially Bee for the look-over, as usual!

The night after Harry and his dormmates were given detentions for the rest of their lives, they dragged the mattresses off their four-posters and set them up in the centre of their round room, like a big hippogriff nest. When they’d come back from lessons the next day the mattresses were back where they’d started out, duvets stretched neatly over the top and they’d had to drag them all back. After that, Harry wrote a nice note to the house elves, and they stopped moving the mattresses. 

“I didn’t mean for anyone to get actually hurt,” says Louis from the recesses of his duvet cape. “Just a little… mouldy. For the laugh.” 

“We know,” says Liam, comfortingly. He reaches over to pat Louis’s knee. 

“We should maybe have thought about lungs, and fumes and things,” says Zayn, his face going in on itself like it does when he’s embarrassed. Harry knocks his knee up against Zayn’s and leaves it there, sapping the warmth. 

“Does anyone have any snacks?” asks Niall, “These cauldron cakes have gone off.” 

“Niall, tell my future,” says Louis in a pathetic voice, “See into the mists of destiny where my sins have been blown away and everyone recognises me for the genius I truly am.” 

“Yeah, alright,” shrugs Niall. He leans back towards his trunk to reach his crystal ball, twining like a snake through the nest of blankets so he doesn’t have to stand up. 

“Someone should dim the lights,” says Liam, brightly. There’s a silence, and then they all look at Harry. 

“ _What_?” asks Harry, pouting. He’s very comfortable. He doesn’t want to — oh, right. Wizard. Harry grabs for his wand and does as asked. The low light illuminates the crystal, so that flickering firelight shines back onto all of their faces. Niall waves his hands over the crystal, fingers wiggling like excited spiders. 

“I see… A face,” says Niall, in a low, rumbling voice. Louis leans forward. “The face… of a twat.” Snorting to himself, Niall topples over in amusement. 

Louis looks sour. “Do it right, you dick,” he demands. It’s pretty impressive how terrifying Louis can be when wrapped up in a lion-print duvet like a sausage roll. 

“Mrao,” says Onion Crisp, kneading Harry’s lap. 

Niall rolls his eyes but returns immediately to the task at hand, doing a complicated arm dance that looks like a mix between contacting spirits and the Veela Shuffle. 

“The weather… Is going to be shit,” says Niall importantly. “Very low visibility. Lots of cloud cover. Off white. Swirling… whiteness.” 

Liam looks concerned. “Oh no, but the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game is coming up. I don’t fly well in fog.” 

Louis lobs a pillow at Niall’s head with a savage Beater’s throw. “Fuck you, dick. Do it _right_.”

Niall giggles and dodges it. “I hate the bloody orb,” he says, “So fucking dumb, never see anything except crystal shit. Here, Tommo, I’ll do you a Tarot instead.” He throws his deck at Louis to shuffle. 

“Hey, Zayn,” says Harry, leaning in closer. “Did you know that most of the professors can see thestrals?” 

“Weird,” says Zayn, reaching over to scratch Onion Crisp behind the ears. “Guess that makes sense, what with the war and everything.” 

Harry’s about to ask him what he means, since Nick and Lou and them were kids during Voldemort, but he gets distracted, because Niall’s declaiming. 

“A crossing of roads!” Niall says, in his deep Seer’s voice that is inexplicably accented like a Slavic crime lord. “We are at a fork of a path, and down one road lies chaos and wailing and rending of clothes. Down the other path lies victory and gold, shining in the sunlight of your smile and life.” 

Louis is squinting down at the cards. 

“The Fool on one path, the King on the other, the crown in your hands and the sceptre fuckin… somewhere else. Shit’s happening, yeah. Some shit.” Niall nods, satisfied. 

Louis bites at his lip, flipping one of the cards to look at it face up. “Alright, I’m gonna… Right, we’re gonna not do this anymore.” 

“Do what?” asks Harry. 

“The thing,” says Louis, definitively, “We’re going to stop with the Slytherin stuff. Get us some points and shit, keep our toes in line. Mostly. As much as we can, yeah?” 

Liam’s face is its own tragicomedy mask. Eventually it seems to right itself. “Well, we can at least lay off the Slytherin stuff,” he allows, “I’m not kidding when I say Prefect meetings have been mad.” 

Harry’s whole insides are going cool with a kind of relief, like he had thought he hadn’t done an essay for Charms and then finds all two feet of it in his school bag, ready to be turned in. 

“Sounds good,” says Niall, shrugging. “Don’t mind either way.” 

“Zayn?” asks Louis, the set of his jaw a little less pronounced as he looks over. 

Zayn looks at the Tarot spread, the Hanged Man stranded apart from the pack. “Yeah, alright,” he allows. 

“But we’re not going to…” Liam frowns. “I don’t endorse _any rulebreaking_ , but certain celebrations are… Harry’s birthday is coming up, and… They’re _entirely out of order,_ of course, but —”

Louis throws a pillow at Liam’s head. “Don’t be a twat, I’m not saying we’ll be _monks_. We’re going to get twatted for Hazza’s special day. We’ll just maybe… Like, get passes. We have those, right?” 

“Sure,” says Zayn, “All seventh-years do. We just don’t usually bother to go get the signatures.” 

“You think Longbottom would actually let us have them? We put the points in _negative_ , mate,” says Niall. Louis’s face falls. 

“Technically, we’re still eligible to use ours,” says Liam skeptically. “I mean, it wasn’t a term of our punishment?” 

“Harry will get the signatures,” decides Louis, looking heartened at the thought. Harry can tell because when Louis is heartened, he starts to look a little bit insane. “He’s a professor’s pet. _Aren’t_ you.” 

Harry doesn’t know what Louis is insinuating, exactly, but he tries not to meet his eyes, guiltily. 

“Grimmy and Longbottom are quite good friends, aren’t they. Should work. Now say you’ll do it,” demands Louis. 

“I’ll do it,” says Harry immediately. 

Louis grins, wide and shiny. Harry has never seen a raccoon out of pictures or Louis’s Patronus, but he thinks Louis looks very raccoon-like with that smile. “Good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. Normally, that would make Harry quite nervous as that’s Louis’s new cartoon villain seventh-year tic, but he’d just made a solemn vow and probably Louis is just going to villain with shots, instead of hexes. Hopefully. 

— 

Professor Longbottom’s office is in the back of Greenhouse 7, a glass-enclosed enclave off the back of the Scandinavian plant section. Through the panes of his door — unlike Nick, Professor Longbottom’s name and title feature no puns, possibly because it’s hard to make Herbology into a fart joke — Harry can see his wide back standing over his desk through the door. Harry knocks and Professor Longbottom turns, beckoning him in with one dirt-covered hand. 

Harry eases the door open and slips in, feeling a bit guilty. Harry doesn’t take Herbology, but he sees Professor Longbottom in the corridors and he looks at all of them with this sort of sad, I’m-not-angry-I’m-just-disappointed look. Harry thinks he would almost prefer the Headmistress’s disdainful glance. 

“Hello, Harry,” says Professor Longbottom and his disappointed face. “How can I help you?” 

Harry looks down at his feet, overlapping the toes of his shoes. “I just wanted… I wanted to ask a favour. I know we’re not your favourite people right now, though.” 

“I know you all didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” says Neville, taking a seat and folding his grimy fingers together calmly. “What happened was a crime of carelessness, not of cruelty.”

“I’m really, really sorry about what happened to the Slytherins,” says Harry, lamely, twisting his legs into a pretzel. “Really. We didn’t know — We didn’t think it would be anything but funny.” 

Professor Longbottom sighs. “I’m aware. And Harry, I don’t blame you personally, I really don’t. You all don’t — It’s different for you. But there’s a fine line between a little student fun and genuine consequences.” 

Harry thinks about his half-empty Care of Magical Creatures class, the set look of Eleanor’s jaw after class when she’d brushed past him without saying hello. 

“Sorry,” says Harry, again. 

“What did you come to talk to me about, Harry? I doubt it was just a crisis of conscience.” 

Harry picks at his nail. He feels really stupid, now, but he’d told everyone he’d ask, so. “I know we don’t — I mean, we don’t deserve to, but. It’s, well, it’s my birthday next week and I was wondering if we could… Maybe have some village passes. Just for the afternoon. We’d be back before curfew. We just want to play Lumos Laser Tag, that’s all, we’d come straight back and Louis has promised to stop doing anything, so you don’t have to, like, worry about. About that stuff.” 

Neville looks at him for a long moment, and then chuckles, shaking his head. “This is why Minerva is doomed to be constantly exasperated with me,” he says, almost to himself. He turns and digs through the stacks of papers on his desk. He turns back and hands Harry a stack of permission forms, then waves his wand over them. The date changes in a flash of white light. 

“Thank you so much,” says Harry immediately, sort of surprised that this had worked so easily. He hadn’t even had to do sad Kneazle eyes, or cry, or even do _one_ lip wobble. Harry normally has to use the lip wobble. The lip wobble is his clinching move. 

“I’m trusting you, Harry,” says Neville seriously, and Harry tears his brain away from thoughts of Lumos Laser Tag and does his best to look grave. “I know you are capable of this. There are very many different kinds of bravery, you know. It comes in all sorts of sizes.” 

Harry has absolutely no idea what Neville is trying to say but he nods earnestly. “I promise not to let you down,” he swears. “Thank you, really. This is brilliant.” 

“Try to keep what I said in mind, Harry,” says Neville, as Harry’s on his way out the door. Harry means to listen, but he’s too excited now. Lumos Laser Tag and his birthday, presents and maybe that karaoke place. Harry fairly runs back to Gryffindor Tower, eager to show the signs of his success. 

— 

“It’s my birthday,” says Harry immediately, when Nick opens his door. “Well, it’s not, it’s my birthday eve eve… eve, but it still counts.” 

“I’ve heard,” says Nick, snorting, “Do come in, young Styles.” 

Harry comes in. “Say happy birthday eve, Nicholas.” 

“Happy birthday eve, Nicholas,” repeats Nick, because Nick is a shit. Harry does the only reasonable thing and tackles him from the side, which is as much an excuse to get his arms around him as anything else. Normally, Harry would lecture himself a bit because he’s doing a very good job being Just Friends, but it’s his birthday eve eve. Eve. 

Nick pulls away, heading towards the kitchen. Harry flops over the sofa, pressing his nose momentarily into one of the cushions just for a minute, just to smell it. 

“So what’ve you done so far, birthday boy?” asks Nick, finally, once they’ve parted and he’s off putting the kettle on. 

Harry watches his back move through the kitchen, bones moving underneath his jumper. Nick does the kettle manually, which Harry finds equal mixture hilarious and hopelessly endearing. Harry’s reminded him fifteen or sixteen times that it would go much faster if he just did it by magic, but Nick ignores him. Nick has some sort of superstition about the water going different if it’s spelled and the tea not steeping right. Harry thinks it’s mad, but he sort of likes how Nick never does his tea by wand because of how his Muggleborn gran used to hate it. 

“Very illuminating response, Harold. Complete slack-jawed silence, strong answer.” 

Harry coughs to buy himself time. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Breakfast and then we played Quidditch. Or, tried to. I was shit. Breakfast was alright, though.” Harry reaches over to Nick’s coffee table for a Witch Weekly or something to fiddle with. “Y’know, when I was a kid, my mum used to say Gemma and I could have whatever we wanted for breakfast on our birthdays, no matter what. I always had ice cream. I miss that sometimes.” 

“So, did you have ice cream off the house elves this morning, then?” 

Harry shakes his head, and then realises that Nick can’t actually see him. “Nah. Wasn’t at breakfast, sad. Had bacon and egg sandwich instead.” 

“That would be an odd flavour for ice cream,” says Nick. “Like a Bertie Bott’s every flavour dairy product.” 

“Sounds okay,” says Harry, musingly. 

“Disgusting,” says Nick. 

Harry flips past an article on hair straightening potion and then puts the magazine down, poking his head up over the sofa to look towards Nick. “So, where’s my present?” Harry asks. He’s waited a whole five minutes before asking, because he has loads of self restraint. 

Nick is leaning in the doorway, smirking. “Oh, _present_ ,” he says, “Was I supposed to get you a present, now?” 

Harry throws a cushion at Nick’s head, but it misses by like a metre and hits a painting of a dragon in the face. The dragon painting snuffles, irritated. “ _Yes_ ,” Harry insists. 

Nick snickers. “Well alright then, now that you’ve mortally offended Winona the dragon. Hold on, let me go and fetch it.” 

Harry lies back down, chewing on his lip and listening vaguely to the wireless. WWN Beat is playing that DJ Nick hates, the one that has no structural integrity, apparently. Harry has no idea what that means, but Nick seems to feel quite passionately about it, though not passionately enough to change the frequency. 

Harry’s busy trying to figure out what lack of structural integrity sounds like when Nick shoves his knees off the side of the sofa to make room. This is ridiculous, so Harry immediately drapes his legs back over Nick, because that’s a friendly, friend-type thing to do. He does it with the lads all the time. Admittedly, when he does it with the lads he doesn’t usually immediately start thinking about hands running up his thighs to his — well. Friends. 

“Give it here, then,” says Harry, making grabby hands. 

Nick looks down at the package in his hands for a minute and then hands it over, with a lopsided smile. “There you go, then, you insufferable brat. Birthday eve eve eve pressie.” 

Harry beams and tears open the wrapping paper, a print of interlocking broomsticks that Harry can’t imagine Nick buying. The paper parts to show a royal blue book jacket, gold writing and an eagle flapping on the cover. Harry pauses, looking down. 

“It’s Luna’s new book,” says Nick, a little awkwardly, “Not out yet but about to, been edited and everything. The Ninkadull thing, still no clue what that’s on about, sounds mad to me, but you liked it, so.” 

“Thanks,” says Harry, trying to ignore the slight plummet of disappointment in his gut, like he’s just done a sharp dive on his broom. It’s a lovely present, really, but — it’s a book, and it’s not… It feels like a Just Friends present. And Harry’s been doing a great job being Just Friends, he _has_ , but… It’s a book. A Friends book. A Just Friends book. Probably. 

“Is it alright?” asks Nick. 

Harry forces himself to stop being insane, and look properly grateful. “It’s brilliant, thanks, Grim,” he says, heaving himself to a seated position so he can give Nick a hug. 

The book may be a Just Friends book, but the hug is not really a Just Friends hug. Harry doesn’t think Just Friends hugs go straight to his dick like this does, just from the warm scent of Nick’s neck, how his skin feels against Harry’s cheek. Harry would be quite content to stay there in the Not Just Friends hug, breathing deep and feeling his blood go hot, but Nick coughs, suddenly, and breaks away. 

“Tea,” he explains, a little roughly, and goes to fetch it. 

Harry looks down at the Just Friends book, running his hand over Luna’s name under the title. Does a Not Just Friends hug make a Just Friends book Not Just Friends? Or is he misinterpreting the book? It’s not out yet, and Nick knows he likes Luna’s studies, and it took some amount of effort to get. Well, he probably had to ask Luna, anyway. That’s some amount of effort. That would count. 

“Here you go, Harold, all sugary and gross, just how you take it.” Nick passes Harry a mug and sits back down. Harry pins him to the sofa with the drape of his legs, because it’s his birthday, and he’s allowed. They sit quietly for a bit, sipping their tea and listening to the promos for Charms Over Notting Hill. 

“Y’know, I used to want to do that,” says Nick, motioning at the wireless. 

“What?” Harry startles. He had been thinking Not Just Friends things. 

Nick looks vaguely amused, but also a little wired, like the tea has set in already and he’s a little caffeinated. “Wireless things. Wanted to do WWN, when I was a kid.” 

“What, like an actor?” 

“Nah, that’s rubbish, would rather be myself, innit? Chatter on to people all day. Quite liked that idea.” Nick stirs his tea, absently, looking off towards the wireless in an indirect sort of way. 

“Why didn’t you?” Harry can feel Nick want to change the subject but he doesn’t want him to. Harry wants to know this about Nick like he’s learning a language, like he wants to write everything down on index cards and review them before bed. 

“Oh,” says Nick vaguely, waving a hand like he can wipe away the question, “This and that. Didn’t want to deprive Great Britain of the glory of my teaching prowess.”

Harry waggles his eyebrows at him, with is a Just Friends eyebrow waggle. If it had not been a Just Friends eyebrow waggle, he’d have also licked his lips a bit. Instead, he bites one, because it’s (almost) Harry’s birthday, and being Just Friends is very trying. 

“Not like _that_ , Harold. Christ. Eighteen years old and already ruined for society. Can’t have that.” 

Harry pouts a little bit, because being Just Friends shouldn’t be permitted on his birthday eve. Eve eve. “No, really,” he insists, when he’s done with the pouting, “Why didn’t you?” 

Nick shrugs, fiddling with a few things on his coffee table. “Different time, wasn’t it. Other things to be done.” He puts his mug on a stack of Witch Weeklies and goes to change the wireless dial. “Besides, wanted to get some nice scars, impress all the young gentlemen.” 

It is suddenly extremely upsetting to Harry that he has no idea what scars Nick might have on his body. It’s his birthday eve. Eve. Eve. He should get to know those sorts of things. “I’m a young gentleman,” he notes, helpfully. 

Nick shoots him an exasperated look, the station changing to a rerun of Mrs. Bower’s Flour Power Hour. “So you never said, what’s on your itinerary for this your day of glorious further legality? Come your actual birthday, you could drink in the Muggle world, you know.” Nick sits back on the sofa, looking extremely pleased with himself for contributing this piece of information. “Know that, I do.”

“What, did you try to go clubbing somewhere Muggle when you were seventeen, then?” asks Harry, twisting his foot so that it prods into Nick’s bony hip. 

Nick makes an affronted face and swats at Harry’s toes. “Never, Harold. Never. Well, maybe. It’s possible. And maybe it’s possible I was _sixteen_ , and it’s possible my fake identification only said I was seventeen and I was thrown out on my arse whilst my friend Henry laughed at me from inside the door.”  

Harry nearly snorts tea out of his nose laughing and has to clap a hand over his mouth to keep it from dribbling down his front.

“Henry was with me when I _made_ that stupid card, too, never said a word, just let me make a useless id and get thrown out on my arse for shits and giggles. Still takes the piss on that one, Henry.” Nick is doing that thing where he’s pretending to be extremely cross, but his eyes are all liquid and fond. Harry feels a brief stab of intense jealousy that he tries to suppress. He’s never met Henry, only heard stories, and maybe Henry doesn’t even like men and maybe that look is just platonic fondness, like… Like his Just Friends book present, maybe. 

It’s Harry’s birthday. Eve. Eve eve. He should get some nice Not Just Friends feelings, more of those like the Not Just Friends hug and less of the psychotic possessive jealousy that rears in his gut when Nick speaks fondly of practically anyone else like Harry’s suddenly a dragon and just been poked. _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus._ Harry thinks that lesson should have sunk in by now, since it’s written all over the damn castle. 

“What’s wrong with you, Harold. Y’alright? Fix that mug of yours, will you. Far too pretty for that sulk.” Nick squeezes the ticklish bit of Harry’s knee until he’s laughing, helplessly. “Better. Now, tell me what you have on the docket. What are those rascally brats you call mates planning for your day? Nothing hexy-hexy, I hope.” 

“Nah. Going into Hogsmeade later, gonna do Lumos Laser Tag and then karaoke at that place with the dragon barrel pitchers, I think.” 

“You be careful of those, tell Rhys he is under no circumstances to give you the birthday special. Last time I had that I woke up in Kent surrounded by gnomes.” Nick shakes his head ruefully. “Ah, I recall the days of my youth where seventh-years were never allowed such privileges. You live in a golden time, Harold. Village passes and karaoke and all the drinking ’til you sick up that you like.”

“Right, so you just sat round the library and did Exploding Snap and drank butterbeer, did you?” asks Harry skeptically.

“With Professor McGonagall,” says Nick snottily, “And Prefect Matt Fincham. Who spent all his free time polishing his badge, both literally and figuratively.” 

Harry snorts. “Gross.” 

— 

“Just… just really quick, please, c’mon,” pleads Harry with his biggest most limpid kneazle eyes. “It’s my _birthday_ , c’mon, please. I just want to pop round and say hello, okay?”

Zayn is giving him a severely Ravenclaw-esque eyebrow raise that Harry ignores, because it’s his birthday. Well, it’s his birthday eve eve. No, not eve, that’s before, that was wrong, it’s his birthday eve eve… Boxing day. Something.  

Louis sighs. “Fine. But if you get caught and we go into negative eight billion, I’m using Hubert only for really cheap tequila, you hear?” 

Harry makes a face, blowing his tongue in an extended _pfft_. 

They escort him all the way to the fifth floor, which Harry thinks is entirely unnecessary because it’s eight pm and curfew isn’t until ten and they are _perfectly within the rules_. Although, possibly, Professor Longbottom wouldn’t necessarily approve of this particular way they’ve used their village passes to be drunk since three in the afternoon. Harry shoos them away once he spies Nick’s door, though, because Nick has been looking askance at Louis lately ever since the fungus thing and Louis has been looking askance back and Harry cannot have askancing on his birthday eve eve. Boxing Day. Thing. 

He enthusiastically bangs Nick’s doorway lion down on the nose, then pets it a little bit, because that might have hurt. It’s hard to keep petting the lion, though, because the door is opening and his hand doesn’t go far enough. “Nick, Nick,” he says, “I hurt the lion’s nose, I didn’t meant to.” 

Nick blinks at him. He’s wearing his glasses and his Hortense and the Muggles t-shirt and his hair is in his eyes. Harry really, really wants to see him naked. 

“I really want to see you naked,” he says, because he’s alive and has a functioning voice box. 

Nick sort of flinches. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” says Harry, and then repeats himself, for good measure. “I’m. Sorry, just friends. I won’t, I just wanted — Nick, I had the birthday special. It was an accident. At karaoke.” He sways on the spot alarmingly, and has to grasp the doorway for support because the doorway is a supportive friend. A supportive Just Friend. “A karaoaccident. A karaokrisis. A karao… problem.” 

“Did you, now?” asks Nick, with a little bemused smile. Harry thinks that his tone would probably sound patronising from someone else, but from Nick it sounds all nice and soft, like a blanket. Harry wants to bury himself in it like a hedgehog forever. 

“Yeah,” repeats Harry. “Yeah, I. Shit. Ow. Nick, my stomach is… A stomach thing. A bad one. Giant Squid insides.” 

Nick sighs a little, his shoulders curling in and then out like he has wings that he’s flapping around a bit, or something. Like Beyoncé. Are people like their Patronuses? Louis has grabby little hands like a raccoon. 

“Poor Harry,” says Nick, “Let’s get you a bit of toast and some water, shall we?” 

Yes, poor Harry, Harry agrees, good, getting somewhere. Harry stumbles into Nick’s rooms, towards where the sympathy is. He falls onto the sofa immediately. The sofa is a supportive friend, like the doorway, and Nick. He is very supported. It’s nice. He breathes into the cushions, over and over again, trying to memorise the warm smell of it. “Smells so nice in here,” mumbles Harry into the cushion. 

“Does it?” asks Nick, urging him up and putting a glass of water in his hand. Harry does his best to drink it but spills a lot. 

“Drinking problems,” he says, giggling, and then tries again. No matter how much he drinks or spills, the water keeps at the same level, which is amazing and confusing and hard to drink his way out of. “Where is the water going?” he asks, finally, taking a breath and stopping his futile quest. 

“’S good, isn’t it?” says Nick, petting Harry’s hair a little bit. Harry’s eyes go half mast and he pushes into the touch. “My friend Hermione did it, back when we were both DMLE and she was tired of the rest of us drinking ourselves blind. She’s clever about that sort of thing. Would, be wouldn’t she, what with all that saving of the world business.” 

“Doesn’t look anything like her Chocolate Frog,” says Harry, thumping his head back into his arms and hoping desperately that Nick won’t take his hand away. 

“No, she’s much better looking in person, I think,” says Nick, tolerantly. He’s not stopping, his fingers strong and flexible over Harry’s scalp. 

“You always do that,” mumbles Harry sadly. 

“Do what?” asks Nick. He’s sweeping his thumb a little over the skin of Harry’s forehead, where it peaks out from his elbow. 

“Talk about other people.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yes. ’N you never… Like, tell things. About you.” Harry sighs. The room is rising up to meet him like the sea, like they’re on a boat and he doesn’t know where they’re headed. Out into the great wide world. 

“I’m not very good at that,” Nick admits, softly. His fingers are going around the edge of Harry’s ear now and Harry would shiver with how soft and deft his touch was but he’s on a boat, he can only do so much rocking. 

“Wish you’d… trust me, like. With it.” 

“Oh, Harry,” says Nick. His voice sounds so, so sad. Maybe he can feel the boat too. “It’s not… I don’t like talking about that stuff. It’s not just you, love. I don’t… I don’t talk about that with anyone.” 

“’S just. The boat, you know? We’re… going. On it. Somewhere. And, like. Boat rules. ’S like you’re on this boat, with Matt and your friends, but you’re… We’re on one too. You know?” 

“What?” asks Nick, with a little breathy laugh. 

“Boat rules,” repeats Harry. He feels very sleepy and sad. The boat is like a cradle, maybe a cradle somewhere dangerous, but it’s all right. Nick’s there too. “We’re going and… You have to tell me what you’re doing, or we won’t get there. You… You have to tell me, too. Please.” 

Nick’s closer to Harry now; Harry can feel his breath warm and soft on his face. Harry can’t open his eyes to see, though, they’re too heavy. They have a permanent sticking charm. Nick kisses his forehead, sweeping the hair out of the way first. “Alright. I’ll try, love.” 

The boat keeps rocking, slow and soft and sweet and somewhere in the background there’s a song playing. “Can you… get radio, at sea?” he asks, through half a yawn. He loops his arm through Nick’s leg, because it’s close. He’d like to put his head in Nick’s lap but it’s so very, very heavy, and his wand is so far away for a levitation. Nick is saying something now but Harry is falling past it, sinking warm and wet but it’s alright, the boat is afloat and Nick can take the steering. Harry pictures the shore, breath washing over sand like water. Before it swallows him up he thinks he can hear Nick talking, slow and very, very soft.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Harry Styles,” he’s saying, and Harry doesn’t know what that means, because he’s fine, Nick’s doing just fine where he is. 

— 

The next morning Harry is not on a boat. He’s on a sofa, and the sofa is possibly, judging by the state of Harry’s head, in hell. If there is a boat, it is now his cranium, and it is at storm and there are gale-forced winds. “Ow,” he says plaintively, without opening his eyes. He knows what will happen when he opens his eyes, and it will be horror. There will be weeping and rending of clothes. 

“How’s the head, Hazza?” Nick’s voice. Harry’s at Nick’s. He had forgotten that; there had been a boat or something. 

“Like a hippogriff stepped on me,” says Harry plaintively. He covers his face with a blanket. He’s not sure when the blanket happened, but it’s soft. 

“There’s some headache potion on the table, love, why don’t you try that.” Harry can hear Nick in the kitchen, things rumbling around and clattering. 

Headache potion is god amongst mortals. The storm in Harry’s head dies down a bit immediately, the cool liquid soothing him from the inside out. He still feels a bit wrecked, but it’s better. “D’you have —“ he starts, but Nick is sitting down beside his head, pushing a mug into Harry’s hands. It’s coffee. Harry could cry. “You’re the best.” 

“I am, aren’t I,” agrees Nick.

They sit there for a minute, Harry slowly regaining consciousness, the soft strains of the wireless starting to register as words. 

“Er,” says Harry finally, some of the previous day’s antics catching up to him. “I think I should — I’m sorry, for uh. Yesterday. If I did anything. I shouldn’t have come over, that wasn’t fair of me. Sorry.” 

Nick shrugs with one shoulder. “That’s alright, Haz, no harm done. Nothing like a drunken Gryffindor break-in, nine o’clock of a Saturday night. Livens up my very sad existence.” 

“Oh,” says Harry, lamely, fingering the edge of the mug. “Well, thanks, anyway, for putting up with me.” 

“I don’t mind,” says Nick, and it’s soft for a second until he comes back in with that light joviality he wears sometimes like a mask, “Keeps me young in my arthritic years, like a potion for the aching bones.” 

“Well, thanks anyway,” says Harry, poking him. 

“Er, by the way,” says Nick, suddenly awkward, twisting the fabric of Harry’s blanket in his long fingers. “So, you know, that weird Luna book wasn’t… Wasn’t the, er. It was a ruse of a present, a little. I mean, it was your present, but I also… There was another thing, a bit.” 

Harry cranes his head so he can look up at Nick, but Nick isn’t looking at him. He’s reaching over to the coffee table. Harry can’t read the look on his face at all. “There you go, then, go on.” He passes Harry a small box, about the size of his coffee mug. It doesn’t have wrapping paper on it at all, just a little red ribbon. Harry tugs the loop and undoes it, pulls the lid open. 

Inside the box, nestled in some tissue paper, is a small, shuffling shot glass, with wonky horns and long, wobbly legs tucked up around it. It’s so cute that Harry wants to die, a little. Its little nose is rubbing against one of its knobbly knees. Harry’s heart beats hard in his throat, and he thinks it’s entirely likely he might cry, which would be undignified. Then again, he has no idea what he did last night, so it’s possible dignity isn’t a real option for him going forward. 

“It’s, er,” says Nick, twisting his hair up, “I thought… Like Hubert. And your Patronus, so. Now Hubert can have company, in his dragon cave. Not a good species to keep together, generally, but I thought, shot glasses, not usually with the eating each other and Hubert’s a bit small for a dragon since this antelope is about the same… I just saw it, anyway. Thought you might like it.” 

Harry’s throat is all choked and he clears it, but it doesn’t work that well. “It’s… It’s great, Nick. I love it.” He strokes the top of the antelope’s head with one finger. The antelope nudges against him. 

“Good,” says Nick lamely. “Well. Glad that’s sorted. Let’s, er, c’mon, let’s go, we’re going to get you some breakfast.” 

Harry looks up from the antelope, still a bit watery. “Huh?” 

“We’re going down to the kitchens, Harold. It’s your birthday breakfast. The house elves are going to whip up whatever disgusting ice cream concoction you want.” 

“’S not my birthday yet,” Harry points out, but he’s pulling himself to his feet and looking around for his trainers anyway. 

“That’s a terrible attitude to have, Harold, it’ll never be your birthday if you keep that up.” Nick tosses Harry his trainers. “Now, chop chop, minions waiting on your every order, c’mon.” 

Harry puts his antelope shot glass carefully into his pocket, and follows Nick out the door. Eighteen, he reminds himself, I’ll be eighteen. He thinks that if Nick didn’t just get him a Just Friends book present, and Louis doesn’t prank anyone for a while, and his hangover feels alright, that eighteen might be a pretty good year. 

— 

Eighteen starts out fine. Harry really meant it when he promised Neville to be good. They’re halfway through March and they haven’t done anything, not once. Not even when Louis gets an idea for a _hilarious_ Valentine’s Day prank, and Harry thinks for sure the truce is about to snap like a dried twig, but it doesn’t, Louis just does it to the girls instead. The calm doesn’t even break for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game, but vengeance doesn’t work that well against Hufflepuffs. They just blink at you and ask if you’d like a biscuit. This may also be because Hufflepuff is widely known as the house of spliff, just as Gryffindor is the house of binge drinking and waking up in bins. 

They said they’re going to stop, is the thing. Everyone promises and Louis makes a solemn vow and they’re all sick of their housemates looking at them like they’re responsible for the cancellation of Christmas. No matter how many points Jade gets in Charms the rubies don’t show up in the Gryffindor hourglass. No matter how many times Harry volunteers outside of class or Liam breaks up fights of the first-years, they’re still in the negative. Louis never cared too much about the House Cup since they never had much hope of winning it, but now that Quidditch could potentially be on the line he’s stalwart in his commitment to rule abiding. 

Harry thinks that, in retrospect, maybe he should have known it couldn’t last. 

They’re waiting for the third floor staircase to shift — it leads to the sixth floor for five minutes every hour, otherwise it goes to the fourth, which is what they need — and chattering about nothing, really, when a shout breaks their focus. 

“Oi, dickheads,” says Bieber in a sharp voice. He’s standing with Bugg and a few other Slytherins, glowering. 

Harry hasn’t seen Bieber much since he got out of the Hospital Wing. He keeps picturing a sort of swamp creature, moss growing down where his hair swoops into his eyes, but Bieber looks much the same, except absolutely pink with fury. He’s the Valentine’s Day hulk a month too late. He could go on very angry belated romantic cards. 

Harry fumbles for something to say that could de-hulk the hulk. What de-hulks a hulk? He knows what works on dragons but singing a calming song doesn’t seem like the best plan at the current juncture, even if it is a great Elixir tune about driving away boggarts of the soul. No one’s saying anything, so Harry prepares to try it anyway, as a last ditch attempt.

“You shits think you’re so fucking clever,” snaps Bieber before Harry can serenade him about his bewitching smile. “Like you can just pull this shit and get away with it, because you’re _Gryffindors_ and everyone lets you do whatever you fucking want since this place wants to suck your red and gold dicks, don’t they.” 

So far as he knows, Harry’s dick is neither red nor gold nor getting sucked even a little bit, so he thinks this is a bit unfair. 

Bieber is coming closer now to them now, hand on his wand and eyebrows drawn low over his face. Behind him, the other Slytherins nod and glower. Glower and nod. Repeat. “You always _fucking_ get away with it. You should have been _expelled_.”  

“We didn’t get away with _anything_ ,” snaps Louis, taking a reflexive step forward. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been in detentions for _weeks_.” 

“Didn’t even get your Hogsmeade passes taken away, didn’t even get pulled off Quidditch, it’s because they’re all fucking _Gryffindors_ here. If a Slytherin had pulled that stunt they’d be put in fucking _Azkaban_ and given the Kiss.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re overreacting, mate, you’d have gotten the same punishment we got. And ’s not like Azkaban even _has_ Dementors anymore.” 

Oh, right, remembers Harry suddenly. Dementor’s Kiss. He’d wondered whether Bieber really was Valentine’s Hulk, for a moment. Would have been a bit belated, he supposes, as it’s March. 

“ _Levicorpus,_ ” snaps Bieber, suddenly, his wand out, and he repeats it again and again and by the time Harry processes what exactly is happening, his centre of gravity has shifted abruptly, like something has him strung up by one ankle. Mostly because something has him strung up by one ankle. 

Harry is entirely upside-down. To his right, Liam is also upside-down, frantically struggling to keep his pockets from emptying. They’re all upside-down, in a neat row, their red and gold ties dangling over their faces. Like fancy monkeys. Harry knew seventh year was going to be strange, but he had no idea they’d go full on jungle. Vaguely, he thinks he’d quite like a banana, actually. 

Louis is swearing up a storm, pairing words together in ways are definitely not legal and probably not very comfortable for the creatures involved. They’re all shouting now, actually, except Harry, who’s still trying to come to terms with his primate lifestyle. 

Bieber cackles and turns on his heel, leaving them to get in touch with their inner apes. “See how you like it, dicks.” 

Harry watches Bieber and the other Slytherins walk away on the floor ceiling, shoes clicking on the stone. Louis is still swearing, increasingly creative. Liam is muttering something about fanged frisbees. Harry would still sort of just like a banana. 

There is no chance in the entire world that Gryffindor will win the House Cup now. 

— 

A couple Ravenclaws reverse the jinx maybe three minutes later, but the damage has been done. Not an hour later Harry is trailing behind Zayn, Liam and Louis, all of whom have free sections and a desire for jinx-related revenge. Niall had Divination. Harry wishes he had Divination. 

“Don’t,” says Harry, lamely, tugging on the back of Louis’s robes. “Just. Don’t, alright?” 

“They’ll do it again,” says Louis. “They will, and what if no one comes by in time? What then.” 

“True,” says Liam darkly. Zayn just nods, fingers tight on his wand.

“It’s just a laugh,” insists Louis, turning towards Harry, “It’s nothing serious. Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Haz, Merlin’s aching balls. Just school rivalry, innit. They do it too.” 

Harry shrugs awkwardly, wishing Niall was there. He’s not sure if Niall would have done anything, but at least they could have had a quiet eyebrow conversation and Harry could know that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to hex people in corridors all the time. Harry bites nervously at the wrist of his school jumper. He tries to think of something to defuse the situation, but it’s too hard and he doesn’t like it. They all have their made-up-my-mind faces on. It doesn’t _feel_ the same, as before, is the thing, but Harry doesn’t know how to make that into words, let alone ones that are convincing. 

A knot of seventh-year Slytherins round the corner and walk past. They don’t see Harry and the other Gryffindors; they’re talking about something animatedly. 

“Time,” says Zayn. He jerks his chin at their disappearing backs. 

“You can hang back, Haz, we’ve got this.” Louis gives Harry a reassuring smile, patting his shoulder. “You swotty little coward, you.” 

Harry doesn’t feel very reassured. He takes a breath. “Okay. I…” He can’t seem to get words out. Maybe Louis is right, maybe Harry really is being a stick in the mud. Maybe he _is_ just overreacting. 

They don’t wait for Harry to finish. Liam’s already walking ahead, leaving the rest of them staring after. Zayn waggles his eyebrows at Harry and then Zayn and Louis take off, catching up with Liam. They stride purposefully down the corridor, rounding the corner, wands out and ready. 

“… don’t think this is a good idea,” finishes Harry, once he can’t see them anymore. He bites his lip, lamely. In his pocket, two anamorphic shotglasses stir discontentedly. He pulls Hubert out and looks at him. Hubert bites the flesh of his thumb. “Yeah, I probably deserve that.” Hubert bites him again, because Hubert is a dragon of shame and vengeance. 

—  

It’s open season — well, stealthy open season — for the remainder of the afternoon, pranking lying in weight through the rest of the class periods. A full scale prank war breaks out in the less populous floors after lessons wrap up, jinxes ringing out through the corridors, bulbadox powder flung about like party favours. Most people do seem to be treating it a bit like a party, perhaps a festival of embarrassing body odours or a holiday of weird things coming out your nose. Everyone is giggling and jinxing and trying not to attract the attention of the professors, everyone freezing whenever one is heard approaching. 

Louis and Zayn certainly seem to love it, eyes glinting competitively, laughing hysterically after every successful antic. All afternoon Slytherins are found strung up places, Gryffindors spotted coughing up slugs in the lavatories, empty cases of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products found strewn about the corridors. After the third time Harry gets hit by a jellylegs jinx, he gives up on staying inside. The festival of embarrassing body odours is not for him. 

Harry flees the battleground — the snowy grounds are also host to a rollicking snowball fight, which figures — and goes to Hagrid’s to help him muck out stalls and feed flobberworms and ride out the festivities. He overhears snatches of gossip here and there, a few Hufflepuffs laughing about enchanted knickers, a Ravenclaw with disdainful eyebrows telling Harry that the second floor is now infested with doxies. Harry thinks that it sounds, actually, okay for the most part. Like regular jokes, so Louis was probably right, Harry was probably overreacting. No one’s in the hospital wing, so it can’t be too bad. 

By seven Harry has to go in to get changed for Friday dinner at Lou’s. He’s not sure if the prank war is still on. He has his wand out casually, just in case, but he’s sure that the jinxing must have died down by now. Surely the professors would have intervened, made everyone calm down a bit. They must have been found out it was happening by now. 

“Unhand yourself!” shouts a voice, and there’s a blur of green and silver and then — “ _Petrificus totalus!”_

Harry’s body snaps into a long line, and he topples with a thud. Vaguely he realises that the Slytherin had put a cushioning charm on his head, which was nice and helpful to his brain because that could have been ugly. He’s lying prone on his side, half propped up against a wall. Harry can’t twist his neck or move his eyes so all he can see is feet in white trainers and the start of school trousers, and the stone of the floor. The white trainers cackle and walk off, leaving Harry with a beautiful, scenic view of the Hogwarts corridor. 

All told, Harry’s not entirely sure how long he’s left for. He memorises the back of a Weasley’s Wizard’s Wheezes box that someone left by the feet of a suit of armour, and counts the number of stones he can see, and makes petrification puns in his head. It’s alright though. That wasn’t as bad as he thought the prank war could get.

“Excuse me!” calls a disembodied voice that Harry thinks belongs to a portrait of an eighteenth century Arithmancer in a flowery witch’s hat. “You, sir! Older gentleman!” 

“I’m _twenty-seven_ ,” grumbles a familiar voice that makes Harry’s stomach jolt, pitching clumsily like a whale who desperately wants to make friends with people on a boat. 

Harry has been petrified for a while. He cannot be held responsible for his similes. 

“Older gentleman, there’s a young man under the full body-bind in this corridor! Children these days. Horrid, nasty little creatures.” 

Harry blinks out into the stones, desperately trying to see past his nose to where Nick might be. Nick’s shoes come into view and then Nick’s knees kneeling down and then Nick’s face. Harry would smile if he had control over his facial muscles, but he tries to do it with his eyeballs. Nick does not eyeball smile back. Nick’s face has gone pale, almost white, and he’s pinched all over. 

“ _Finite incantatem,_ ” says Nick, and Harry collapses in relief. It’s pretty annoying to have your neck stiff for that long. He pulls himself to a seated position and beams up at Nick, rubbing his face. 

“Thanks,” he says, cheerfully. 

“Who—” says Nick, tightly. “What happened.” 

Harry shrugs. “Not sure, some Slytherin. It’s alright, they did a cushioning charm. I’m sure Louis will get them back for it.” He makes a little face, slightly guilty. He’d tried to stop them, earlier, but it never works when he tries, so. May as well just get along with it. 

Nick’s face goes even whiter, and then sort of red, blooming over his cheeks. “Some — fucking _hell_ , Harry, I thought you were done with this shit.” 

Harry flinches. “What shit? What are you talking about?” 

“This fucking… idiotic feud — do you know how _dangerous_ it can be to leave someone under the body-bind? Do you people have _any fucking idea_ what could happen?” 

“They… They had a cushioning charm,” Harry repeats. “We always do that, when we do this. I mean, it’s alright, I don’t mind. Louis and Zayn got like six Slytherins with it a few hours ago. I don’t like it much but.” Harry shrugs. “That’s the way it is.” No one’s in the hospital wing this time. He thinks that’s alright. It’s not like the fungus thing at all. 

“They got… Fucking _hell_.” Nick stands up, shoulders tense by his ears as he paces back and forth. “This is… This is incredibly stupid. You don’t know how bad this can get, you don’t know how fucking _long_ it takes to work past this I swear to god, it took us _years_ , Harry, _years._ ” 

Harry stays still and tries not to make any sudden movements. When Harry first brought Onion Crisp to Hogwarts, she used to shake and hiss and spit whenever she went into a new room. Nick reminds him of her, now, a bit. “Years to do what?” he asks, quietly, looking up at Nick. 

“I can’t _talk_ about this with you, you weren’t — I don’t…” Nick trails off, tugging at his quiff compulsively. 

“You told me you would try,” says Harry, still quiet.  

“I — I just can’t, alright. I can’t. I can’t do this right now.” Nick throws his hands up a little bit. “I’m sorry, I just. I can’t, alright?” He walks away before Harry can say anything else, which is becoming a theme in Harry’s life. 

“Fuck,” says Harry to the corridor stones he now knows intimately. “That went fucking well, didn’t it.” 

“Your vocabulary needs work,” sniffs the Arithmancy witch’s disembodied voice, above him. 

“Sorry,” says Harry, getting up and brushing off his trousers. He feels weird, all angry and upset and confused, and he doesn’t want to go back to Gryffindor Tower and deal with everyone celebrating and drinking and bragging about who jinxed the most Slytherins. Harry goes to Lou’s office, even though he’s not due for an hour. 

“Hiya, love, what are you doing here so early?” asks Lou, turning around from her desk, “I thought we were going to — oh. Oh, Harry, what’s wrong?” 

Harry wants to tell her, but he really wants a hug first. He goes in, burying his face in her neck. Lou strokes his hair a bit and shushes him, like she hasn’t since Harry was much smaller. Once Harry feels a little less like the world is awful, he pulls away and sits in one of the comfortable chairs by the window. 

Haltingly, he explains what happened, biting his thumbnail intermittently and mumbling at the floor. When he’s finished, he tucks his knees in close to his chest and looks up, finally. Lou is sitting across from him, her silvery hair tucked back behind her ears, an inscrutable look on her face. 

“So,” Harry continues, “It’s like… I don’t know what I did? And, he’s my friend, but I — I’m kind of angry with him, if I’m honest.” He takes a breath. “He _always_ does this, you know and he said he’d work on it but he hasn’t been, obviously. He still doesn’t tell me _anything_.” 

“I’m sorry, Haz. You’re right, he’s not being fair, but…” Lou surveys him for a minute, sadly. “You and Grimmy have had very different Hogwartses, love.” 

“That’s _exactly_ what everyone keeps saying,” says Harry, frustrated, “But that’s all they say, like, —“ Harry imitates Nick’s voice, poorly — “‘Well, Harry, it was different for me when I was in school,’ and that’s it, that’s all I get, which would be okay except when then he _flips out_ and loses it completely and I… I don’t even know what it _means_.” 

Lou reaches over to separate his hands. Harry realises he’s been wringing them together compulsively, over and over, like he could wring all the answers out of their twisting. “Alright, Harry. You don’t remember the war, much, do you?”

Harry shakes his head, focusing on breathing. “No. Gemma says she does, a bit. What does this have to do with —” 

“I’m trying to tell you, Haz. Give me a sec, will you?” Lou laces her hands with Harry’s, rubbing her narrow thumb over his in a solid calming sweep. “Grim and I were in school during the war, like Neville. That’s what everyone keeps meaning, see, by different. I don’t know the whole story — my parents pulled me and Sam out before things got too bad — we had friends who stayed. Nick and Matt stayed. And when I say things got bad, I mean things got very, very bad.” 

“Oh,” says Harry. Professor Binns doesn’t talk about much that happened after 1921, possibly because Professor Binns thinks it is still 1921. Harry knows, vaguely, that terrible things had happened to Hogwarts at some point during the war, that the whole castle got destroyed in the battle when the Dark Lord was finally killed, but he doesn’t know the details. The castle seems alright now. It’s hard to believe it ever wasn’t. 

Lou pauses, seeming to gather her thoughts. “The thing is, Hogwarts really was different then. People aren’t making that up. It was unpredictable, more dangerous. Slytherin and Gryffindor were at each others’ throats, often literally. Tom — you know he’s Muggleborn — he got called slurs every day, just walking to class. You couldn’t trust people much and the situation changed day by day. A Hufflepuff died, when I was a first-year. My second year, we had a Defence prof who for detention made us do lines in our own blood.” 

Harry’s stomach surges, suddenly, like he might be sick. Lou keeps talking, a low steady tone. 

“That was Nick’s first year. And you know Grim, Harry. Does he seem like the type to keep quiet, keep his head down?” 

Harry shakes his head, dumbly. 

“No, I reckon not. Not sure what happened to Nick for the rest of the war, since my parents kept us home after that. My mum’s a Muggle and my dad’s Muggleborn; we all went into hiding. We had to. But I’ve heard stories. By the end, Death Eaters ran the place. Neville has most of those scars he’s got from Hogwarts, not from Auroring. Did you know that?” 

Harry thinks about Professor Longbottom in his office, dirt all over the pink lines of his hands. He had assumed that Professor Longbottom had sort of come that way, originally. In retrospect, that seems really dumb. 

Lou looks down at her own fingers, where she’s pulled them away from Harry. She’s pushing the skin around her nail like she’s upset with it. “The castle was pretty much destroyed in the Battle of Hogwarts. That part you probably know. My first year back, that’d be Grim’s fifth, we had to sleep in tents on the Quidditch Pitch. We got our NEWTs learning how to rebuild this place. Stone by stone.” Lou pats the wall next to her, fondly, like she’d look at Lux. Like she looks at Harry, sometimes.  

Harry is chewing on his lip hard. He feels really small and out of his depth, which must show on his face because Lou gives him another hug, her skinny arms tight around his shoulders. 

“There’s a reason we all came back to Hogwarts, Harry. Just be patient with him, alright?” Lou stands, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “That’s enough of that, I think. Would you like a cuppa?” 

Harry nods, for lack of anything better to say. 

— 

Nick is not at breakfast the next morning. Harry ignores his housemates’ excited chattering about the previous day’s activities in favour of staring at the empty seat where Nick usually is, and wondering whether his absence is a normal Saturday morning sort of absence or a specific kind of weird argument absence. 

“Got Eleanor with a canary cream,” notes Louis brightly. 

“Three _levicorpus_ es and two toebiters,” says Zayn. 

“I — possessed, probably, by someone who doesn’t like rule abiding and being a considerate citizen, because I _never would_ — I got… _tarantallegra_ on Bugg. But he got it on me, too, so, wash.” Liam makes a face. 

“Frog spawn soap in all the loos,” says Niall, waggling his eyebrows. 

“You did that to our own house,” points out Zayn waspishly. 

Niall shrugs. “I still win.” 

“Hey, guys,” says Harry, “Have you seen Grimmy this morning?” 

“Thirteen dungbombs in the second floor west corridor. That _trumps_ your soap.” Louis pokes Niall between the eyes with his toast. 

“Dunno, mate. I bribed a firstie to do belch powder in their tea.” Zayn smirks. 

“Oh, _nice one_ ,” says Louis, thumping him on the back. 

“Wicked,” agrees Liam. 

“Sick,” says Niall. 

“Or, Finchy, maybe? He’s not here either.” Harry cranes his head to check, past the wild red curls of a fourth-year down the table. 

“I’m thinking stink pellets next,” says Louis. 

“ _Terrible_ ,” says Liam mournfully, “Imagine if they were positioned all over the dungeons so that they’d be hit in waves.” 

Harry curses the ginger fourth-year heartily, almost standing to try to get a glimpse. “Or Professor Phillips? I don’t see her either, but she’s never at breakfast on weekends, I guess.”

“That _would be_ terrible,” agrees Louis cheerfully, “It really would. And what charm would they terribly use to terribly do that?” 

Liam sighs heartily, wiping a bit of jam off of his Prefect’s badge. “I couldn’t imagine, but in my nightmares I think possibly they could use —”

“Oi, dickheads,” says Eleanor from behind Harry’s back. He looks over, and sure enough Eleanor, Danielle and a few other Slytherins have invaded their table. 

Louis scowls at her. Louis has been doing significantly more scowling in her direction ever since she stopped talking to him after the fungus incident. Harry strongly suspects it is a scowl of longing. “What do you want?” he asks, pointedly eating toast like he is not scowling in longing. 

“We’re sick of this,” says Danielle, firmly. She crosses her arms. “This is getting stupid, and our NEWTs are coming up. Belching powder in our tea? What are you, five?” 

Liam looks mildly affronted. “Not that I would ever — in the tea, because that would be wrong — but that’s a very devious prank!” 

Bieber rolls his eyes. “You’re all dicks, and fucking stupid at that. All Gryffindors are fucking idiots.” 

Liam scoffs. “ _What_ and like Slytherin is filled with geniuses? What are you going to insult Muggleborns and turn out a few dark wizards, next?” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath that Harry realises came from himself. 

“Would you _stop it_ with that?” snaps Bieber, “We are _not fucking evil_ you self-righteous twat.” 

“Just inbred and obsessed with blood purity,” says Louis coldly. Zayn snorts. 

“ _Excuse_ me?” asks Eleanor pointedly. 

“It’s a pureblood affliction, you know. Are all your parents related, or just Bieber’s? Is it just cousins, then, that’s not as bad, that’s what you tell yourselves.” 

Harry clears his throat, stomach flopping around like a seal hit with _tarantallegra_. 

Eleanor looks like she is about five seconds away from hexing Louis’s balls off, or Muggle duelling his head in with a nearby candlestick. “I’m a fucking _halfblood_ , you unbelievable arsehole. And _your mother_ is pureblood!” 

Liam breathes heavily, his hands clenched into fists. “So what’s next, then, are you gonna go off and call someone a M—“

“Um,” says Harry, voice raising, scraping hoarse and cross from his throat, “I — _Stop it_. This is _not okay_. Just — just, _stop,_ alright?” Harry realises that he’s shaking, a bit, his hands trembling at his sides. He holds them together tightly to try to get them to stop. He gets to his feet, clumsily grabbing for his bag. “We have to stop this, okay, Danielle’s right. I’m not — I’m not going to sit around for it anymore. I’m not.” Harry looks at everyone until he can’t take it any longer, which is after about five or six seconds. They all have eyebrows of judgement that make his stomach turn over and over again. Harry scrambles over the bench and hurries out of the Great Hall before he tries to take it all back. Somewhere in the castle sympathy can probably be found, and Harry sorely needs some. 


	8. Harry Styles and the Boggart Blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Helga Hufflepuff has poor taste in tuffets, Lou Teasdale channels Dumbledore, and Luna Lovegood goes business casual. Oh, and the boys do some things too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the usual friends — Bee, Catie, Jess and Chex, amongst them — and to you all for bearing with me as updates start to slow a bit going forward. I hope you enjoy!

Harry’s stomach seems to be making a concerted effort to twist itself into a knot of some inhuman devising whilst his brain works in concert to make him feel as nervous as physically possible, not just about what had just happened in the Great Hall, but every area of his life. By the time Harry hits the third floor, he’s also worrying about his NEWTs. By the time he climbs the stairs for the fourth, he’s worrying about something stupid he’d once said to Danny Riach in fourth year. By the time he’s walking through the fifth floor corridors, Harry stops feverishly deliberating over everything he said in the Great Hall and starts worrying about Nick. Harry wants to feel cheered up and comforted, and he doesn’t _want_ to think about whatever it was Nick was talking about with the Petrificus incident. 

Harry is already steeling himself for Nick’s face as the door opens. He’s so stalwart in his goals that he barely registers Nick’s slightly panicked eyes as he pushes past him into the recesses of his rooms. Harry makes a beeline for the sofa, throwing himself into its nonjudgemental embrace like Artemisia offof _Artemisia and the Cloven Hoof_ throws herself into the virile arms of centaurs. Harry presses his nose into the cushions first thing, sucking in the smell. It's helpful, like when his mum cuts onions in water to keep her eyes from stinging.  Harry just needs to stay here for a bit and suck up that smell, that’s all. Nick is, as expected, not so accommodating. 

“Harry…” says Nick tightly. Harry isn’t facing Nick, but he can practically see him twisting his long hands in his mind’s eye. “I’m sorry but I still don’t want to—”

“ _Stop_ ,” groans Harry weakly into the cushions before Nick can get any further, “This isn’t even _about that_. Not… Not everything is about that.” Harry curls his fingers around the sofa cushion, pressing it closer into his skin. 

Nick goes quiet. Harry listens to the wireless. A woman with a strong cockney accent is advising him to try Bertie Bott's Finest Fanciables, now with twice the tripe. Nick shuffles around above him. Harry can hear the rusting of Nick’s clothes and then the sofa bends, weight shifting. Fingers ghost over Harry's head, very light. "So why are you becoming one with cushions, then, young Harold?" 

"Mmph," says Harry, presumably in the language of comfortable furniture. 

“I see,” says Nick, starting to scratch through Harry’s hair with his long fingers, the touch deft. Harry sinks further into the sofa, envisioning transfiguring himself into plush goods. “Very trying, becoming pillows.” 

“Did this sofa come with Hogwarts?” asks Harry, muffled, “Is it enchanted? Is it an enchanted sofa of fluff and happenstance? Is it bewitched?” 

Nick twines one of Harry’s curls around one finger and Harry could almost cry for how good it feels, a tight shivery feeling like he’s just drank Pepperup with a cold. Sofas probably don’t have nerve endings, so it’s against his fine furnishing intentions, but he doesn’t mind too much. 

Nah, this one’s mine,” says Nick, still twining, “The room came pre-furnished but I didn’t want to think about who had that bed before me, you know? Had to chuck it all out. Start new, less moth-ball-y. Get a bed that doesn’t smell of ye olde professorials.” 

Of course Nick is talking about beds, because Harry’s life is suffering. Sofas never have these problems. He entertains a brief fantasy about Nick’s bedroom — which Harry has actually still never seen, which is irritating for many nightly imagery purposes — and lets it go on longer than he normally would have, because he’s upset. Upset people deserve naughty fantasies. “What would be the worst person, to have it before you?” asks Harry, as if he were not currently thinking about whether or not Nick’s bed is a four-poster.

“Binns,” says Nick immediately, “Or Slughorn.” There’s a little shudder in Harry’s hair that Harry figures is Nick violently reacting to the thought. “Still think old Sluggy’s a bit creepy, innit.” 

“He’s nice,” says Harry, even though he doesn’t really have an opinion. 

“He hasn’t been ‘nice’ to _you_ , has he? I’ll put bulbadox powder in his eye-holes.” Nick is laughing but Harry sort of suspects that he is perhaps not entirely kidding. Harry probably shouldn’t like that as much as he does. 

“No,” says Harry. Nick’s hand stills and Harry grumbles, wiggling to remind it. “Keep doing — keep, my hair. Please.” 

Nick’s fingers resume their petting, alternately tugging and stroking over Harry’s scalp. Harry lets out a long, relieved breath. He could almost fall asleep. He feels very warm and soft and heavy. Maybe he really is becoming the sofa. Stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened this _week_. 

“D’you want to talk about it?” asks Nick, hesitantly. 

Harry thinks about this for a minute, considers saying that yes, he would, so long as Nick doesn’t startle and run off like a feral kneazle, yet again. Maybe that wouldn’t be being patient, though, like Lou said. He sighs. “How… How do you, like. Get your friends to listen, when you know you’re right about something?” 

Nick sucks in a little breath but doesn’t address the hippogriff in the room, which Harry appreciates. He doesn’t really want to be reminded about the particulars of the Gryffindor-Slytherin feud right now. 

“Not really sure,” admits Nick, slowly, “Don’t tell Matt Fincham this, but to be honest I’m not usually the one of my friends who’s right about things. Unless you’re talking about Charms Over Notting Hill, in which case I am champion and Glenys’s attic ghoul is _absolutely_ her ex-husband with spattergroit, don’t listen to anyone else.” 

Harry huffs a laugh. “It is not, it’s her old Auror partner who got cursed last year. I called it.” Nick pokes him in the side, and Harry bats him off without looking. The scuffle is nice, but not what he’s aiming for. “Well, I mean,” tries Harry, “what have they done, to get you to listen?” 

It’s quiet for a bit, but Nick isn’t spooking off. He hasn’t gone still or run to put the kettle on or made up some pressing social engagement to escape the room. He’s still sitting by Harry, fingers moving deftly through his hair, so Harry supposes he’s just thinking. Harry does his best to be patient. The wireless plays a jingle for the new Firebolt X-Max. Louis really wants it, but there’s no chance he can afford the fee. Not even with all the money he made working at Florean’s over summer. 

“I… Luna, I think,” says Nick, finally. Harry tries to keep very still. The last time Nick’s voice sounded like it does now was maybe when Harry had been drunk, passing out on this sofa, and he’d thought he’d heard Nick talk to him, soft through the haze. “She’s a bit of a bright one, that Lovegood. Mad as a jarvey, mind, but bright. Her last year of school, er…” Nick trails off and then seems to come back in stronger, like he’s braced himself for a tricky spell. “After the war — this was during tent Hogwarts, I told you about that, yeah? Brilliant, I had a wobbly orange one with my mate Euan — got bit mad. Slightly tense, that year. Not that the year before wasn’t… Anyway. I, er —” 

Nick’s hand is frozen in Harry’s hair now. Harry can feel it shaking a little. He tries to keep very still. 

“There was some hexing. Not so good, not all the fun, ever had by friends? I… It was me, mostly. Some others. Got a bit recreational. Luna sat me down and gave me a good bollocking, something mad and clever, I think. Reminded me of what’s real and what’s not, a bit. What’s a real… enemy, I suppose. Got us to stop.” Nick’s voice sounds very odd, a bit like frozen grass in winter, about to crack. Harry can hear him breathing, can almost feel him physically shake it off. 

“Turned out fine in the end,” amends Nick hastily, coming back in bright and chipper, “That Henry and LMC are alright, aren’t they? Not too bad, as humans. Fine and unfeathered. Very good hair and teeth, the both.” 

Harry doesn’t turn to look at Nick but he reaches up to take his hand, where it’s still and trembling by his ear. “Yeah, I like them,” he agrees, even though Harry still hasn’t met Henry. Carefully, Harry interlaces Nick’s fingers with his, holding them close up against Harry’s cheek. One of Nick’s sharp knuckles brushes Harry’s cheek as light as a flutterby’s wing. 

Nick coughs, and squeezes Harry’s fingers before releasing them. “Anyway, you’re mad,” Nick says, airily, “That ghoul could never have been Glenys’s Auror partner. He was banished from the mortal plane and anyways, Trimalchio would never have treated her antique collection like that.” 

“Are you kidding?” asks Harry, rolling over for the first time since he became one with fine home furnishings, still on his stomach with his head propped up. The light is weirdly bright. “Trimalchio wrecked the Ottoman of Hufflepuff that one time!” 

“Not his fault,” sniffs Nick, looking down his nose at Harry. If Harry hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago, he never would have been able to tell there had been even a crack in Nick’s good humour. “Anyone would have done the same. That ottoman was possessed by the spirit of the Dark Lord, and besides, it was orange. No one likes a tangerine tuffet, Harold.” 

“Helga Hufflepuff must have,” Harry points out, reasonably. 

“Helga Hufflepuff also thought yellow and black were topping house colours, Styles. She cannot be trusted with interior design.” 

“At least she got the prime kitchen location for her dormitories.” 

“True, that. Old Helga, good for some, few, food-related things. Poor Hufflepuffs, though, wish someone could have intervened in ye olden days. Did she not know the generations she was condemning to fluoros and bumblebee aesthetics?” 

“Like Godric Gryffindor, maybe?” Harry punches at his pillow, making it puff up properly for a home for his face. 

Nick makes an incredulous sound, all sputtery. “Red and gold are _hardly_ better. That common room would give anyone a seizure on a sunny day.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “So who’s got the best style, you reckon? I’m guessing Ravenclaw. I’ve seen the statues. She was pretty fit.” 

Nick’s mouth twitches, as if to say ‘I know what you’re playing at, Styles’. “Her or old Slytherin. That bloke was a paranoid, weird little bigot, but man knew his colour combinations.” 

Harry stretches and shifts, cracking his neck, enjoying the pull of his muscles and absently — in a Just Friends sort of way, of course — hoping that Nick is too. He can feel his jumper ride up a bit in the back and lets it. Just Friends would have let it, that’s just common sense. 

“No one in their right mind would have — _oh_ my god.” Nick stops, voice going high and slightly agitated. “What,” he says shortly, “Is _that_.” 

Harry looks up at Nick, confused. Nick is staring in dawning incredulity at Harry’s back, which can’t be that terrifying. “What?”

“Harold. Is that….” Nick hooks his fingers through the fabric of Harry’s jumper, tugging it up a bit. His fingers barely brush the skin of Harry’s back, and Harry thinks devotedly about Friend Things, like… Well, he can’t think of any at the moment, but he’s sure they exist. Friends. Just Friends. 

“ _What_?” repeats Harry, though he’s got a pretty good idea of what, now. 

Nick sputters. “Harold. You have… that’s a pygmy puff. On your back. A pygmy puff tattoo. No, not even — that’s a pygmy puff _tramp stamp_.” Nick looks torn between hysterical laughter and weeping, a bit like he had at the start of year feast. “I’ve — You’re — I’m — You’re a person who has a _pgymy puff tramp stamp_.” 

Harry got that pygmy puff tattoo on his birthday last year, and he is very fond of it. Likes to crane round to see it in mirrors in the morning. It’s really cute, he thinks. “ _Hey_ ,” says Harry, pouting, “I _like_ it. I think it’s nice.” 

Nick has one hand to his face now, and he’s shaking his head, along with the entirety of his torso. Seems like he’s decided to go with hysterical laughter, as a choice. “You don’t,” he chokes, “Think it’s a representation of your soul or summat, do you? Oh god, you probably do. Merlin’s distended bollocks.” 

“No,” says Harry, “But it _could_ be. Dunno. Shut up!” He pokes Nick incessantly in the side closest to him. “It’s important to me, okay.” 

“It’s a _pygmy puff_ ,” wails Nick.

Harry looks at Nick, who’s still snickering and watches him for a minute, a grin blooming over his face. “You know,” Harry says slowly, “Actually, I think that bothers you less than you want it to.” 

“It bothers me _tremendously_ , Harold, what are you on about,” protests Nick, “A bloody pgymy puff tramp stamp, what kind of underage idiocy did you get up to for that particular —”

“No, you _don’t_ mind it,” says Harry, sitting up to get a better view, grinning wickedly so that his dimples cave in. “No, you think it’s _endearing_. Don’t you. You do.” 

Nick shoots Harry an outraged look but his neck is blooming pink up from his collar, and Harry’s gut spikes in victory. Nick sputters. “How could you insinuate that. I never would.” 

Harry just grins. “Yes, you do. You _like_ that I have a pygmy puff tramp stamp. You think it’s _cute_.” 

“I _don’t_ ,” Nick whines, pathetically. 

“Sure you don’t,” says Harry, smugly. He stands, brushing his jeans off and tunes the radio to WWN Beat. “D’you want some tea? I’m making some.” 

“I _don’t_ ,” Nick repeats, futilely. 

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light, Nick.” Harry is already halfway to the kitchen, and doesn’t look back to respond. 

“I don’t understand that reference!” calls Nick from the sofa. 

“Read summat that’s not Witch Weekly, sometime!” says Harry. Nick calls something back, but Harry’s too busy smiling helplessly at the kettle to respond. 

— 

The next morning dawns rainy and grey, the relentless drizzle melting the previous week’s snow into a sludgy mush that sucks at everyone’s shoes until their shins are all coated in a fine layer of dirt and silt. Harry eats breakfast early and wades down to Hagrid’s hut before he has to talk to anyone. He feels better after Nick’s, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to deal with all of Gryffindor and their inability to let anything go. 

Niall is late. The class has already carted the barrels of single-malt whisky to the Aethonian horse stalls through the muck and are listening to Hagrid explain horse handling techniques by the time he appears.

“What’d I miss?” Niall asks breathlessly, looking over Harry’s shoulder at Hagrid, who is motioning towards the line of the Aethonian’s winged back. 

Harry turns to look at him. Niall just stares back, grinning like it’s any other morning, like nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened. It’s possible that Harry wants to send Niall’s parents a thank you owl, just for having him. 

“What’s with you, weirdo? C’mon, tell me about them winged beasties.” Niall musses Harry’s curls with both hands, ruining any work Harry had put into them that morning. 

Harry doesn’t fix his ruined coif. He topples forward to bury his face into Niall’s shoulder, curving his frame to fit into Niall’s, getting as close as he can. It’s not exactly dignified class behaviour, but Harry can’t help himself. He’s only got so much self control, and these days he needs all of his reserves in order to be Nick’s Just Friend. Harry can’t spare any shreds of abstemiousness to keep to a no cuddles during lesson time rule. Niall huffs a surprised chuckle but doesn’t pull away. He wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and holds him there. Niall smells a bit off, like he’s had baked beans down his back all morning, which he very well might have done. Harry doesn’t mind. 

Niall lets Harry cling for the whole of Hagrid’s demonstration, and when they’re sent off to do their practicals he stays close like he knows Harry needs it, making rude jokes about horse cocks that make Jade screw up her face when she overhears from the next stall. Harry really needs to send the Horans a fruit basket, or something. 

The Aethonian Niall and Harry are assigned is called Procyon. He’s tall — over 21 hands — and aged, almost old enough for retirement. His chestnut coat is shaggy, a bit less than glossy than it should be, and his wings don’t molt as well as a younger stallion’s would, so he needs special care. Harry offers his hand for sniffing. Procyion snuffles over it, lipping over Harry’s palm with his wrinkled mouth. It’s a little drooly, which is gross. 

“Foul,” says Niall, disgusted. 

“Hey,” says Harry mildly. He turns to Procyon, who’s surveying him with his great peaceable eyes. Harry combs his fingers through Procyon’s forelock. “Don’t listen to mean old Niall. I know you can’t help it.” 

They work in quiet for a bit, brushing the dirt out of Procyon’s coat and plucking loose feathers from his wide wings. Harry likes this part. They’re not to use magic techniques on the winged horses; they like the contact. Harry can relate. Procyon is surprising docile and quiet for an Aethonian, but he butts his head against Harry’s side sometimes when Harry tugs a feather that’s not as loose as he thought and nearly knocks him into the trough. Harry takes the coat and wings whilst Niall picks the feet, holding Procyon’s hoof carefully as he scrapes the hook through the mud. The soggy weather has been hell on the Aethonians’ hygiene, Hagrid says. They don’t much like being muddy. Harry thinks they should probably be used to it, seeing as they’re native to the British Isles. 

“Hey, Niall,” says Harry, breaking the silence as he detangles Procyon’s coarse mane. “So, um. You know, the thing, the Slytherins thing?” 

“Uh-huh,” says Niall absently, moving to work on Procyon’s rear hooves. 

Harry stares at Procyon’s mane, tugging the comb roughly throught so that he doesn’t have to think too hard about what he’s saying. “I think — it’s not… good, like. I think it’s sort of ruining the year, kind of. I think we should maybe… tone it down, a bit. Not do things that are so serious. Like the Petrificuses? They can be really dangerous. We shouldn’t do that anymore.” 

“Yeah?” asks Niall, grunting as Procyon shuffles, knocking his hoof out of Niall’s grip. 

“Um. Yeah,” says Harry. He combs over the same bit of Procyon’s mane, devotedly. 

“Yeah, alright then,” agrees Niall, peaceably. 

Harry looks over, surprised. “Really?” 

Niall shrugs. “No difference to me, mate. Don’t mind.” 

“Oh,” says Harry, “Um. Right then. Thanks.” 

Procyon butts his nose against Harry’s thigh. He realises he’s been combing the Aethonian’s wings with a mane and tail comb for the last twenty seconds, and hastily goes to swap it out for the right tool. Along the way, Harry can’t help but go in for another cuddle. It’s a bit involved and complicated, as Niall is trying to work on Procyon’s feet, but Harry’s an adaptable sort. 

— 

After lunch, Harry trails after Zayn up to Lou’s classroom for Muggle Studies. Zayn is quiet, which normally wouldn’t worry Harry so much, but he can’t tell if this is a normal quiet, or it’s a Zayn’s-a-bit-peeved quiet. 

Normally they have a laugh on the way up to class, Zayn taking the piss out of Harry for doing a course he could pass in his sleep and Harry trying to defend himself. Harry can’t deny that since his dad is a Muggle, he didn’t exactly have to do any revision to pass exams about kitchen appliances or modes of transport. Once they started on government systems and history, though, Harry hadn’t had much of an advantage. There’s a difference between visiting your father at a Muggle restaurant sometimes and knowing how the Muggle Parliament works. Harry liked Lou and he liked the class discussions, so he’d stayed on for NEWT level. Zayn likes to take the piss for it, but Harry knows he’s not serious. Harry can trust that, but he’s too nervous to trust Zayn’s silence now, He sort of awkwardly ambles along behind, wondering what he could say to break the silence until it’s too late to think of anything. He slips into the seat next to Zayn’s by instinct. 

At the front of the classroom, Lou knocks over a stack of Muggle magazines and swears fluently as they spread across the room. She waves Harry off when he goes to help, and the weirdly static figures stay ground-bound, chained to their frozen smiles. No matter how familiar Harry is with Muggle culture, them static pictures will always give Harry the willies. 

Lou sends a few sparks from her wand and the chattering class quiets, except for Zayn and Harry, who already were. 

“Okay, you bastards,” announces Lou, “We’re going to move on with our examination of how the Muggle world and the wizarding one fuck each other up. I hope you’ve done the reading, because otherwise you will sound like an idiot in this discussion.” 

Next to Harry, Zayn inks a doodle of a broomstick into the margin of his textbook. Harry fiddles with his lip and stays quiet, watching over Zayn’s shoulder. 

“So, as you should have learned in your reading,” says Lou, “the wizarding community likes to pretend like we don’t have anything to do with the Muggle one, and vice versa, except to erase their memories when they see a dragon on their highland holidays. We talked last week about how Muggle wars have been fed into by our own conflicts — the chicken and the egg scenario of the Grindelwald War and what the Muggles call World War II. Muggle sympathisers will tell you that World War II was instigated by Grindelwald’s reign of terror in continental Europe. Wizarding purists will say that the Muggle-influenced atmosphere of terror and prejudice were responsible for Grindelwald taking power. They are both roughly half full of shit, but we’re not talking about that today.” Lou turns to the board, sketching something out with her wand. 

Harry edges his elbow against Zayn’s, gently. Zayn turns towards him, one eyebrow raised. “You alright?” Harry asks, hushed. 

“Fine,” says Zayn, shrugging. He turns back to his doodle, which has now started to include players alongside the inked brooms. One small figure appears to be knocking a Bludger into another’s gut. 

“However, not all of the influence is so straightforward,” continues Lou, turning away from the chalkboard. There’s a timeline behind her now, starting sometime in the seventies and moving forward to the present day. “Now’s that moment where you prove to me that you actually read bloody anything I assign you. What am I talking about, here?” 

Harry nudges a bit closer to Zayn, but before he can say anything Zayn raises his hand in that half-hearted way he does, like he’s nervous of seeming too eager. 

“The British Wizarding Wars, I think,” says Zayn, “They didn’t feed full on into wars for Muggles, but there was still a back and forth.” 

“Right,” says Lou, nodding. “In the First Wizarding War, that’s here.” Lou taps the 1970s end of the timeline with the tip of her wand, and it glows white. “That’s the first rise of He Who—” Lou catches herself, coughs into a fist. “Voldemort. The Wizarding World was fucked, but so was the Muggle one: the Troubles in Northern Ireland — no, Devin, I didn’t misspeak, we covered the differing political divisions a month ago, do some bloody revision — a deep economic depression, violence in urban centres. Which leads us to… Where?” 

Harry tears a bit of parchment away from his notes and scribbles on it. _Are you angry with me?_ He pushes it towards Zayn, trying not to look too obvious. 

“The Second Wizarding War,” says Danielle, from across the room. 

“Right, as we call it in these Isles,” agrees Lou, “The rest of the world has different names, which makes sense, since they didn’t give too much of a shit as it didn’t touch them much at all. British and Irish Muggles, however, were not so lucky.” 

Zayn pushes the parchment back to Harry. He’s written, _No???_ in his narrow quillmanship. Harry relaxes a bit and turns to glance at him out the corner of his eyes. Zayn has his brows furrowed at him, concerned. Harry warms a bit at the attention, nudges his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder. Harry turns the parchment over, and writes on the other side. _Are you still doing stuff against the Slytherins?_  

“Yes, that’s right,” Lou is saying, though Harry doesn’t know what she’s replying to. “That’s the sort of long-lasting influence we have on each other. In its structure, I think blood status resembles the Muggles’ class system, I agree, but in practice, it’s more like Muggles treat race, or gender. Not something we’re necessarily great about either, mind.” 

Zayn nudges Harry’s hand with the edge of the parchment. Harry unfolds it. _Dunno_ , Zayn has written. _Maybe. Why shouldn’t we?_

“Alright,” says Lou, putting her wand on her desk and resting her hands on her hips. “Let’s do this. Raise your hand if you’ve ever said something like, ‘don’t be such a Muggle.’ Or, ‘that couldn’t be worse if a Muggle had done it.’ Along those lines.” All around Harry, fingers raise hesitantly. Harry pauses in deliberating in his reply to Zayn to raise his too.

Lou nods at the class, and they lower their hands. “Right, thought so. I have too, it’s pretty ingrained in our culture. What sort of situation do you say that, then? When would you say, ‘don’t be such a Muggle?’” 

“When someone’s being a twat,” someone suggests. 

“When someone does something stupid,” says somebody else. 

“Sounds about right,” agrees Lou mildly. “And where’s the trouble with that? Are there any? Am I overreacting?” 

Harry looks down at the parchment for a minute, and then looks up at Lou. “I guess it’s… that means that we think all Muggles are twats, and stupid,” he suggests, slowly. “And that wizards are supposed to be better than them, somehow. Which… might make it easier, you know. To excuse things.”

“Exactly,” says Lou, pointing a long fingernail at him. “That’s key. That we think we are supposed to be _better_ _than them_. It’s what an academic might call a microaggression. We assume inferiority. You do that enough, it becomes invisible. We all say it. And then, sooner or later, this starts to spread. It’s not just Muggles, then, it’s Muggle _borns_. And what does that make Muggles? Even worse, since they’re starting to infiltrate our world through their magical kids, innit? The Dark L— Voldemort is dead, but the mentalities that allowed him to seize power are still there, just the same. If we think they’re not just because no one is torturing anyone in on high street, we’re bloody mad.” Lou frowns. “And responsible, at that.” 

“But where do the Muggle politics feed into this?” asks Devin from the back of the classroom. 

“Oh, right,” says Lou, turning to motion to the board, “Starting around here, we start to see an economic depression, which was instigated by the temporary collapse of Wizarding structures like Gringotts —” 

Harry looks down at the parchment, Zayn’s cramped handwriting with the innocuous question mark. _They’re not our enemies_ , he writes. He passes it to Zayn. 

Zayn looks at it for a minute, then knocks his knee against Harry’s and leaves it there. “Okay,” Zayn says, low against the curve of Harry’s ear. 

“Oi, secretive Sallys!” Lou throws a quill at Harry and Zayn, her aim, as always, excellent. “Want to share?” 

“Nope,” says Harry, beaming. Zayn tugs Harry’s forearm to rest over his notes, and starts doodling Muggle electronics over the skin. “We’re okay.” 

— 

A few days pass before Harry builds his courage up enough to go and talk to Louis. He decides that Louis is the next natural step because he’ll be the most difficult, and if Louis goes along with it Liam is sure to follow. He waits until lessons are over and the Gryffindor common room is dim and vacant, just a few errant students sprawled out over the overstuffed sofas. Louis is monopolising the fire, flipping through an old edition of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle. 

“Haz,” snorts Louis as Harry sits down beside him. “Do Muggles really sleep in bags filled with pillows?” 

Harry looks over his shoulder at the comic, where Martin Miggs the Madd Muggle appears to be wrangling a herd of massive cushions into a rucksack. “Er, sort of,” he says, dubiously. 

Louis seems appeased and returns to his reading. 

Harry takes a deep, centring breath, and tries to think about every reason why this is an important conversation to have so that he doesn’t give up and just take a nap in front of the fire instead of putting himself through an awkward situation. He sits for a minute and steals some of Louis’s Chocolate Frogs. This may have been a mistake, because now Harry feels like he may vomit up Chocolate Frog onto the remaining Chocolate Frogs, and that would be doubly disappointing when he wouldn’t be able to finish them. “Louis,” Harry begins, slowly, once his mouth is empty, “I wanted to know, er. If you would maybe consider, like, going back to not… doing things. To the Slytherins, I mean. At least, not too many things.” 

“Nah,” says Louis, turning the page. 

Harry frowns. “But, Lou, the thing is… It can get really dangerous? And NEWTs are coming up, and it’s distracting for all of us, and people are getting really angry?” 

Louis just shrugs. “I’m not going to stop if they won’t. And they won’t.” 

“They could,” insists Harry. 

“They won’t,” says Louis, “And it’s gone too far now. I’m not gong to kiss and make up just because we have bloody NEWTs coming up. Viking rules, Haz.” 

“Lou, you’re from Doncaster.” 

“I’m a Viking of the heart, Harold. You should know this about me. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m not backing down unless they do it first, and they won’t because they’re evil villains who seek to destroy everything that is good and beautiful about our world. They probably burn nice comics and drown puffskeins in their spare time, the cocks.” 

Harry sighs, resting his head into his arms. Louis hums cheerfully and scratches the back of his head, at peace with his thoughts of moral absolutism. 

— 

Later in the week, Harry sets out to broker a possible truce in the Slytherin dungeons, in the hopes that it could help soothe Louis’s Viking morals. The only trouble is, Harry can’t seem to _find_ the Slytherin dungeons. He remembers a time when he thought that Slytherin had the lamest common room entrance in the castle hands down. He now regrets that judgement. Clearly this is Slytherin’s revenge. There are 36 dungeons in Hogwarts — of the ones Harry _knows about_ — and just as many walls between them. The other houses are easy to find: look for a portrait of a mouthy singing lady, or an eagle head, or a big round door by the kitchen storage. The entrance to the Slytherin dungeons is a _wall_. Harry has underestimated walls. He failed to take into account the fact that there are _so many_ walls in Hogwarts, and _they all look the same._

Harry knocks frantically at stone after stone, cursing the name of Salazar Slytherin and all his sundry descendants and their favourite friends and pets and general associates. A few Hufflepuff lower years passing by give him odd looks, but this doesn’t sway his actions. Everyone already knows Harry’s a bit weird. It doesn’t matter, as he has important quest things to do, and important Hogwarts founder-related cursings to curse. 

Important quest things that involve knocking on quite a few walls. 

“ _Stop it!”_ cries a high, wild voice. For a brief, harried second Harry is sure that the wall is protesting his rough treatment. But no, the wall is silent and cruel and unknowable as always, that femme fatale of stone creations, that sultry minx of building material, and the cry came from further down the corridor. Harry runs to see, tripping slightly in his haste. 

It’s a very small boy in a green tie, shaking, wide-eyed staring at a massive, swaying quintaped. Harry has only seen quintapeds in photographs, and thinks dumbly for a moment that the Care of Magical Creatures textbook really doesn’t do them justice. The creature is massive, maybe a two and a half metres across and just as tall. It balances on 5 club legs as hefty as tree trunks, the claws of its weirdly jointed toes scratching the floor. The textbook had informed Harry that quintapeds were extremely aggressive, but Harry suspects one can’t truly comprehend that until confronted with one. The quintaped gnashes its teeth at the boy, saliva dripping from each pointed fang, ducking down towards the boy’s head with savage, hungry intent. 

The boy screams again and Harry dashes forward, instinctively, wand out. Defences against quintapeds, he thinks frantically, pushing the boy behind him as the quintaped rears up on its strong back legs — abruptly, Harry wonders whether there _are_ front and back limbs, with circular creatures, and wants to talk about it, and then realises he _can’t_ talk about it because if Harry stops to talk he will probably be _killed horribly_ with nonspecifically directioned limbs — and waves its strange humanoid claws at Harry. It makes a strangled glottal sound, gnashing its teeth. 

At once, Harry remembers vividly that quintapeds are carnivorous. He also remembers that they particularly fancy humans. Harry shoves at the boy behind him, hoping he’ll get the hint to move backwards and maybe not become exciting creature buffet. Harry’s brain is churning. Something — there was something about light? He remembers that Quintapeds live on the Isle of Drear, under heavy clouds, and their eyes aren’t adapted to light. It startles them. Harry seizes on this with frantic hope. 

Charging forward, Harry braces his wand. “ _Lumos maxima_!” he cries, and the dungeon corridor floods with light. For a minute Harry thinks he’s actually ended up blinding _himself_ — which would figure, actually — but, no. He’s not blind. The quintaped is no longer there. There’s no trace of brown hair, no sign of clubbed leg, the deep-set eyeholes that look dug in to the fur — no, instead, it’s his mother. 

Harry hasn’t seen his mum since Christmas. She smiles at him, but it’s cold, tight, nothing like the warm grin Harry has in pictures on his bedside table. Her hair is very shiny. “Harry,” she says, sighing, “You know we’d really rather you just not come back from Hogwarts this summer.” 

Harry recoils, his eyes prickling. A jab in the the side jolts Harry out of his cold, sinking shock. “It’s a _Boggart_ ,” says the boy, his Scottish accent thick over the words, “I thought it was a — but it’s a Boggart, don’t listen, it’s a Boggart!” 

Right, that was stupid — of _course_ it’s a Boggart. Harry’s mum is in Cheshire, and doesn’t usually Apparate in place of a level 5 danger-rated creature of a Sunday evening. A Boggart, elementary level. Harry learned the charm when he was thirteen years old. “ _Riddikulus_ ,” he cries, voice cracking halfway through the word, like he really is thirteen again. 

 Anne transforms, swirling, building another body up from the legs. It’s Gemma, now, with a pitying smile. “I’ve always known you were dimmer than me. Just not worth it, are you?” 

“ _Riddikulus,”_ Harry repeats, magic surging again through his wand. 

Gemma folds in on herself, long hair growing inward and up, and it’s Louis now, standing in front of Harry in his Quidditch uniform. “Such a stick-in-the-mud, Haz,” says Louis, withering, the disdain on his sharp face showing no hint of softness. “So fucking annoying having you around. Can’t wait to be rid of you.” 

“ _Riddikulus!”_ cries Harry, breathing shallow and fast, eyes pricking despite himself. He tries again, and Louis dissolves, and it’s Niall, and then Zayn, and then Liam, and they’re all saying the same things — that they don’t like him, that it’s better when Harry’s not around, that they can’t wait until they’re out of school so that they never have to see Harry again. 

Harry keeps repeating the spell, over and over. He remembers the lesson. He got that question correct on his OWL. Harry’s supposed to find a way to make the fear funny, visualise the form and then manifest the changes. Unwind a mummy, put a silly hat on a chimaera. Laughter is poison to a Boggart, but try as he might, there’s nothing funny about this. 

“ _Riddikulus_!” Harry shouts again, panic gripping at his insides like a his ribs are under a constricting charm. 

Liam shoots up tall, folds in, and then there’s Nick, his soft eyes, his long eyelashes. It’s Nick’s face, but he’s scowling now, cross. “I really regret you,” he’s saying, and he’s not even angry. He’s examining his nails. Nick just sounds weary with it. Bored. “You’re so dull. Such a waste of time.” 

The Slytherin is crowding up behind Harry now. Nick goes all brown, shoots legs from every angle, skitters onto the stone of the floor. The Slytherin screams again, falls over and tries to back away on his arse like a crabwalk. 

“No, no, c’mon,” says Harry, pulling him to his feet by the back of his jumper, “Let’s just — just run, it can’t leave its nest, c’mon!” They bolt, arms pumping, rounding the corners at a gallop. Harry’s breathing hard, his eyes stinging despite himself — it was a Boggart, he _knows_ that’s what Boggarts do, that’s what you should expect — but it still hurts so bad, deep down. The Boggart looked _just like them_ , sounded just like them, and it hurts just as much. _Riddikulus_ is supposed to be easy, intro OWL level. Maybe Harry couldn’t cast it because he hasn’t, not in so long, and he wonders why they do Boggarts so early. When Harry was thirteen, his Boggart was a spider. No one in his class had gotten a Boggart like he’d just gotten now; it had been all scary creatures and falling off cliffs. It’s much easier to put a spider in rollerskates than laugh off your mother telling you that you’ve let her down. 

Harry’s so caught up in thinking about this that he almost bowls the Slytherin over. The boy has stopped abruptly in front of a plain stone wall, a plain stone wall that is absolutely identical every other stone wall in the corridor. There is nothing distinguishing about it. It’s also about fourteen dungeons down from where Harry had been knocking.

“Oh, sorry,” says Harry, mostly to his general surroundings. Harry’s bowled over a suit of armour instead of the lower year, and he reckons that’s better. Suits of armour probably don’t get bruises. 

“That’s alright,” says the Slytherin, even though Harry hadn’t been talking to him. “Thanks for helping.”

“You’re welcome,” says Harry. He pulls himself up a bit, shakes out his hair. He realises he actually doesn’t know the boy’s name, but when he turns to ask the boy has his back to Harry, is facing the wall. 

“Leonem morerentur,” says the boy, and the stone wall opens in on itself, greenish twinkling lights leading into the Slytherin common room just as Harry remembers. 

Harry would have been in the dungeons _all night_ trying to found that damn entrance. Salazar Slytherin must have been one sneaky son of a bitch.

“Nigel?” says a voice. It’s Eleanor, peering out from one of the chairs. “Are you alright? What’s —“ She stops, then. She clearly sees Harry, as her face goes from gentle to hard as fast as a full-body bind. 

“It’s alright!” says the Slytherin — Nigel — hastily. He bounds into the common room, beckoning Harry after him. Harry looks both ways like he’s crossing a street, and then follows, hands shoved nervously in his pockets. Nigel is grinning back at him, freckled cheeks round around his gap-toothed smile. “I was nearly _horribly murdered_ just now by a Hairy MacBoon! He saved me. He’s Harry Styles, right?” 

“That’s right,” says Eleanor, patting Nigel’s arm. She looks up at Harry, some of that facial hardness falling away. 

“It wasn’t really a quintaped,” Harry says, in case he gets too much credit. Mostly Harry had screamed and ran away, and that doesn’t seem to deserve the kind of appraising look Eleanor’s aiming at him. “It was a Boggart. I didn’t do that much.” 

“I would have been _eaten alive_ ,” insists Nigel. He nods encouragingly at Harry, like the force of his chin will persuade Harry to see it his way. “My life was in _grave danger_ that I only _narrowly escaped_. I have to tell everyone. Excuse me.” Nigel salutes Harry and then disappears into the dormitory. 

Eleanor is still looking at Harry with calm, thoughtful eyes. Harry has no idea what her face means, but she’s very pretty, so it’s not a terrifying sight. Well, it’s not _entirely_ a terrifying sight. It would probably be less terrifying if Harry didn’t know how very good Eleanor was at Charms. 

“I didn’t — I didn’t hurt him, or anything,” Harry tries, shifting from foot to foot. 

Eleanor laughs, the peel of it almost startling in its unexpectedness. Harry realises that he hasn’t heard Eleanor laugh like that in a long time, maybe in months. “Harry, we’ve had classes together for seven years. You couldn’t hurt a flobberworm.” 

Harry frowns. “I might,” he says, “If I had a good reason.” 

“Yes,” agrees Eleanor, “If it was being mean to the other flobberworms.” 

Harry shrugs. That would be a good reason, but he supposes there are other ones too. “Hey, El, listen, I was — I was actually in the dungeons to come and talk to you guys.” 

Eleanor leans back in her chair, the laugh fading from her face. She nods towards the sofa across from her. “Go on,” she says. 

Harry sits down where he’s told, feeling rather like he’s doing a job interview. Harry’d had a whole bit planned — a speech, and words to include, and arguments, and he’d practised it a bit — but he hadn’t exactly counted on an interlude of emotional turmoil prior to the speech’s delivery. Harry can’t really remember what he was going to say, now, so he stalls, biting the skin of his lip. “We’ve been,” he starts, looking devotedly at the ground, “We’ve been pretty good, the last couple weeks. Not a lot of, like pranks or hexing or anything. And I thought — I thought we could stay like that. Or, like, go back to how we used to do it, where it was funny and not…” Harry trails off, looking for the right word, running them through his mind like pebbles. Horrible. Mean. Sad. Scary. Mouldy. 

“Malicious?” suggests Eleanor. 

Harry nods. “Yeah. I think this year we’ve — all of us — gotten a bit. Carried away, like.” 

“You lot started it,” says Eleanor, hackles up. 

“No, I agree,” says Harry hastily, putting his hands up in front of himself. “You’re right, we did, and that wasn’t okay and I’m really sorry. No one meant anyone to get hurt, any of the times. It’s just… We used to be, like. Friends. And I miss that.” 

Eleanor’s pretty face goes all scrunched, her eyebrows pushing her temple together, eyes going big and round. “Yeah,” she says, “Me too.” 

“Do you think we could… we could be, again?” 

“That was good of you, to help Nigel,” says Eleanor, “That’ll go a long way with everyone.” She glances down at Harry’s legs and frowns. “Do you want me to heal that?” She motions at the blood seeping through Harry’s jeans, which Harry actually had yet to notice. He supposes that would be the adrenaline. 

Harry nods, and Eleanor gets out her wand. Quickly the blood is seeping back into the wound, skin reknotting over the open place. The pain Harry hadn’t noticed seeps away. “You’re really good at that,” he says, when she’s done. 

“Thanks,” says Eleanor, looking pleased, “I’ve applied to St Mungo’s to be a Healer, so I should hope so.” 

“You’d be great at that,” says Harry honestly, “Do you think you’ll get in?” 

“All depends on my NEWT results, doesn’t it?” Eleanor smiles with half her mouth. “Be a bit easier to revise without having to watch my back all the time, really.” 

Harry nods. It really would. He realises that Eleanor never answered his question, about being friends again. Harry thinks he may have the answer anyway. 

— 

By the time Harry leaves the dungeons he’s optimistic about the state of the truce, but a corner of his gut is still churning. Fucking Boggarts. It hadn’t felt like this, when he’d been a third-year. Harry carefully avoids the Boggart’s lair but he does post up a little sign — “Boggart, Beware!!! :( ” — near its home on his way out of the dungeons. 

Up on the fifth floor, Nick’s door is reverberating with a heavy bassline. Harry knocks with both hands, fondly eskimo kissing the lion in the process because whims overtake him, sometimes, and he feels really weird and wants to express that somehow. Harry is still knocking with the door swings open. 

“Harold!” says Nick, but Harry can only tell that’s what he’s said by the movement of his lips. The music is far too loud. Harry motions at his ears and Nick’s eyes widen in realisation. He lowers the volume with his wand. “Soz, forgot.” 

Harry makes a face. “You _forgot_ about the deafening noise in your rooms?” 

“Yes,” says Nick, dignified, “I’m desensitised to it now. I like a drum to rattle your bones, it’s the only way to exist.” 

Harry likes that. He would also like it if Nick could rattle _his_ bones, and he might have made a rude joke about that but he’s just realised he should have a mission, this visit. Besides, Harry can’t quite get the look of that Boggart who wore Nick’s face out of his mind, but that’s neither here nor there nor anywhere… there-adjacent. 

“So what can I do for you, young Styles?” 

“Boggart in the dungeons,” says Harry. “And I thought, since you’re the Defence prof…” That was not, actually, the reason why Harry had gone to Nick’s rooms, but it’s a good enough approximation. 

Nick looks back behind him. Harry understands why when he sees the familiar blond head of Luna Lovegood pop out of the kitchen. 

“Hello, Harold!” she calls. She’s wearing an oven mitt on her head. Harry didn’t think Nick owned an oven mitt. Nick tends to use his kitchen to store the food the house elves supply, and to make tea, and that’s about the extent of it. An oven mitt really taxes Nick’s usual level of preparedness. 

“Hi, Luna,” says Harry, with an awkward bobble of a wave. 

“Did you get the article I sent you last week?” she asks, cheerfully. 

Harry nods. “Yes, thanks! I was going to write you a longer owl back, with some, like, thoughts I had, or something.” 

“That sounds very nice,” says Luna. She looks between him and Nick, smiling. “What did I interrupt? Was it liaisons? I do hate it when I interrupt liaisons.” 

“Harry found a Boggart in the dungeons,” says Nick, going a little red behind the neck. 

“Well then, by all means, go and Gryffindor at it, Nicholas.” Luna adjusts her oven mitt hat. “He does love to do that a bit, to impress the young gentlemen.” She smirks at Harry, knowingly. 

“Pfft!” says Nick, flapping his hands at her, “Go on, back to your… whatever. Your kitchen alchemy. Whatever it is you’re brewing, you wench.” 

Luna laughs, a high, giggly sound, and disappears from view. 

Their walk down to the dungeons is uncharacteristically subdued. Try as he might, Harry can’t quite push the Boggart to the back of his mind and it makes him feel anxious, hyperaware of everything stupid he might be saying. He’s never felt like that with Nick before. 

“Alright, Styles,” says Nick when they’re descending the steps to the dungeons, the air clammy as they go below ground. “Where’s the pun, then. I know you thought of one.” 

Harry scoffs. “Who says I have at all?” 

Nick just raises an eyebrow. Which, fair enough. Harry has. 

“What does a Boggart look like if your greatest fear is a Boggart?” asks Harry, absently tugging at his lower lip. He darts a look at Nick’s face through the side of his eye. “Riddikulus!” 

Nick laughs a little, enough that Harry can see the crinkles by his eyes. It’s very kind of him, as that was far from Harry’s best work. Harry’s had a very busy day, and hasn’t spared much thought for his puns. He should be pun-ished. 

“Dreadful,” says Nick lightly, and he nudges Harry’s shoulder. Harry feels the brush of contact seep through his whole body. “Now lead me to the beast.” 

Harry’s parchment sign is still pasted to the wall when they reach the infested part of the corridor. Harry is doubly glad he put it up, as it’s likely he wouldn’t have been able to find the corner otherwise. He can’t be sure, but he thinks Nick gives it a brief, fond smile. 

“So it’s down thereabouts?” asks Nick, motioning towards the dark recess in the wall. Harry nods. “We’ll go in together. They don’t like multiples, it’s confusing, weakens them.” 

“I remember,” says Harry, flushing a bit. He wonders if Nick has assumed that Harry doesn’t remember how to do Boggarts at all, since he couldn’t take care of it himself. That’s a bit mortifying. He tries not to focus on that thought as Nick beckons him forward, towards the dark where the Boggart is. Negative emotions to start out only make the charm harder to complete. 

Nick edges into the alcove, and Harry follows close behind, keeping his wand tight in his hand and not even sparing a thought to the possible double entendre thereof. 

A shadowy figure emerges from the darkness, and for a moment Harry thinks the Boggart is already confused, swapping his fears for Nick's. Once the light of the corridor hits its face, though, Harry doesn’t recognise it. The Boggart is a boy, younger than Harry, round in the face with heavily gelled hair and a wash of freckles. His face wouldn’t be awful if it weren’t for the expression on it, savage, like a merciless centaur in a story. The look is much older than his features. 

“They deserved what they got,” says the Boggart, in a cracking pubescent voice with an accent like Harry’s own. “They deserved worse than that. They should bring back the Dementors, innit. The Kiss is the least of what they should bloody well get.” 

Nick looks almost surprised. He jerks back instinctively, almost knocking into Harry. Harry presses a hand to the curve of Nick’s lower back, careful. Nick leans into it. 

“Merlin sodding hell,” says Nick, sounding a little shaken, “Jesus. Okay. _Riddikulus!”_

The Boggart pops violently pustulant spots all over his freckles, the spikes of his dark hair bleaching white. He stumbles, confused. Harry steps forward, trying to confuse it. The boy gawks at him for a moment, until his spots suck back into skin. Skin rippling, he grows tall, hair darkening and stretching up, quiff-ward. _Well_ , Harry thinks desperately, _this is embarrassing_. 

Boggart Nick sneers at him. “Couldn’t even do a third-year level spell. Pathetic.” He raises one eyebrow. “Can’t believe I’ve spent so much time around someone so embarrassing.” 

Real Nick takes Harry’s hand, sudden and swift. His grip is so tight it almost hurts. Harry squeezes back. He doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t want to see what Nick’s face looks like. “ _Riddikulus_!” he cries, and Boggart Nick wobbles onto rollerskates, almost falling. Nick snorts behind him, and the Boggart wavers. 

Real Nick walks forward and faces Boggart Nick for a brief, surreal second. Then the Boggart shifts, melting into the boy from before. He draws his cruel eyebrows down over his eyes. “They deserve to be punished,” the Boggart boy says coldly, “I don’t care how old they are. They did it. It’s _their fault_.” 

Nick lets out a low whistle. “Fucking hell. You dumb little shit,” he says, surveying the Boggart boy with distaste, and then, “ _Riddikulus!”_

The legs of Boggart boy’s trousers burst into extravagant bell-bottoms, and he stumbles forward on white patent leather platform shoes. Nick sniggers, which sets Harry off a little. The Boggart boy looks between them, head bobbling like a perplexed parrot, and starts to flicker a bit, like a Muggle television when you do a spell too near the box. 

Harry steps forward, and the Boggart boy’s disco wear disappears, replaced by the surreal wardrobe of Luna Lovegood and Luna’s face above it, smiling with absolutely none of the usual kindness in her bulbous eyes. “I’m very sorry, Harold,” she says, “But I’m afraid you are just not worth the correspondence. You really are nothing like the crowning ceremony of the Ninkadull Eagle People.” 

Behind Harry, Nick starts laughing, incredibly. Harry a little bit wants to kick him, because he hasn’t even done _Riddikulus_ yet and this bit is _not supposed to be funny_. When Harry turns, Nick grabs Harry’s hand. He’s using the other to cover his face, clearly trying to stop himself from giggling inappropriately. He fails spectacularly as a chain of snorts escapes from his violently wobbling mouth. Harry doesn’t mean to, because he is _upset, damn it_ , but a giggle comes out in echo, just a small one. 

“ _Riddikulus!”_ he cries, turning to point his wand at Boggart Luna. She twists, suddenly sporting a demure grey pencil skirt and blazer, with sensible, short heels. Her long hair is twisted up into a rigid chignon. She carries a clipboard. Behind Harry, Nick completely loses it. His infectious gurgle spreads to Harry, like always, and soon they’re off it completely, giggling madly and hanging off each other. Boggart Luna tugs perplexedly at her business casual wardrobe.

“Business… Business Luna,” chokes Nick, before having to stop because he’s laughing too hard. He sounds like he might choke. 

“Luna in… A board meeting!” cackles Harry, his eyes tearing up with the force of it. His stomach hurts, and he has to lean heavily on Nick not to fall over. 

Business Luna looks briefly panicked, clutching her clipboard and flickering. The light brightens, flaring abruptly until she disappears with a flash of red and a loud _pop_ that only makes Nick laugh harder. 

“We vanquished… Business Luna… She’s gonna take… Our severance pay…” 

Nick has given up on vertical life and is now sunk to his knees. Harry falls with him. They sit there in a tangle, periodically heaving out activities for Business Luna — a company picnic, a holiday party, using paperclips — and then dissolving again into incoherence. Harry is slightly afraid he may have weed himself. 

“God,” says Nick, wiping at his eyes, “I love Business Luna. I want her to be my life coach.” 

“Executive nargles,” says Harry. 

Nick dissolves again, clutching at his stomach as he wheezes. “Stop it,” pants Nick, finally, “Stop being funny. I’m gonna have a breathy attack problem.” 

Harry beams and kicks Nick a little bit in the leg. “I’ll do my best.” 

Nick traps Harry’s ankle before he can pull it back, gripping it with long fingers. The laughter drifts away from his face as he regards Harry carefully, eyes going soft. “Haz, you know — you know we all love you, right?” 

Harry winces, screwing his mouth off to one side. “Yeah,” he says, because he does. Knowing it doesn’t mean not fearing it, in the end. 

“Alright, good.” Nick laboriously hauls himself to his feet, then pulls Harry up after. “Let’s go and visit Luna. Pretty sure I can convince her to put on shoulder-pads and say ‘synergy’.” 

Harry snorts. “Five galleons if you can get her to make a pie-chart.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, Styles. You’re on.” 

— 

Ancient Persian wizards had a custom wherein all decisions were made alternately drunk and sober, to make sure both their drunk selves and sober selves agreed. Harry has a similar philosophy that effectively combines the tactics of children of divorced parents with the profound customs of ancient Persia, because Harry is a genius. If someone’s sober self doesn’t agree to something, Harry will go and ask their drunk self. He has had a 78% success rate with this strategy. After Harry’s success with the Boggart, he’s sure to be a success in other areas of his life as well. 

The thing is, Louis hadn’t wanted to do a truce when he was sober. Sober Louis said no, so it was time to go and ask your mother: Harry must ask Drunk Louis. In order to ask Drunk Louis, Harry must, like a magizoologist of inebriation, create the ideal natural habitat to draw him out. The ideal natural habitat for Drunk Louis is a Gryffindor party, which has given Harry an extremely brilliant idea that will help him achieve multiple life goals at once. 

With help from the Gryffindor 7th year girls (who hands down throw the best parties at Hogwarts), Harry has secured 3 kegs, 2 mason jars filled with firewhisky, 12 bottles of assorted liquors, and absolutely nothing to mix anything with, because Leigh-Anne says mixing is for quitters. With help from Eleanor and the Slytherins, Harry has secured use of the weird secret room that can only be accessed through a cupboard in Dungeon 12, and mixers, because Eleanor says alcohol poisoning is a waste of her Healing talents. 

The music is loud. The kegs are flowing. Gryffindors are trying to sing and are actually shouting. Ravenclaws are getting into fights about philosophy. It is now only a matter of time before Drunk Louis emerges from his burrow, to relish the fermented fruits of his natural habitat. 

“This is the fucking _best party_ ,” shouts Niall over the sound of Elixir’s remixed number one. He slings a sloppy arm over Harry’s shoulders. “Fuckin’… Shitfuck cunt dick, fantastic.” 

The nice thing about Niall, Harry thinks, is that you can reliably guess his level of happiness by the number of curse words in his drunken ramblings. The happier he is, the more he says cunt. 

“Now where’s Cher Lloyd?” Niall pounds Harry’s shoulders, using them to get some leverage as he tries to peer over the room. “That girl could hippogriff fuckin’ murder my shitting intestines with a dickhexin’ salad tong. I wanna snog her fuckin’ face.” 

“Maybe you should wear intestine armour,” suggests Harry. He looks around the room obligingly, and then points out Cher dancing with Danielle and a few other Slytherins, past a knot of wasted Hufflepuffs who are doing some form of modern dance to the heavy beat. Niall kisses his cheek sloppily and then weaves his way through, getting caught up briefly in the web of the Hufflepuffs, evocatively curving his hands to become a spiritual tree with a seventh-year called Marcy. 

“SHOTS!” bellows Liam, shoving one into Harry’s hand. 

There was a time, Harry remembers, when Liam would not drink. He recalls it as a long lost mythical day of tales and tributes, like the tales of King Arthur. He does the shot. Liam thumps him on the back manfully. “Y’alright, Li?” asks Harry, stepping on his toes to be a pest. 

Liam nods, then peers around like he’s an Unspeakable agent. “There are a lot of Slytherins here,” he whispers loudly into Harry’s ear. He may also have spit. A Slytherin standing by the drinks table raises her eyebrow at them, having clearly overhead Liam’s deafening whisper. 

“Yeah,” says Harry. He looks at Liam, who is regarding him with very serious eyes. Were Liam not wearing a top hat made of flashing rainbow bowties, this may have been a sobering sight. “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that? You know?” 

“‘Bout what?” asks Liam, adjusting his bowtie hat. “ _Ohh_ , that thing. That thing… Zayn said.” Liam frowns pitifully, like a disappointed krup. “I didn’t like that thing.”

“Yeah, um,” says Harry, puzzling through his alcoholic haze. “So, you know, I was thinking, actually. Wouldn’t it be so much worse if we, like, worked with them? To… mischief? That would be much harder for you to take care of.” 

Liam squints at Harry, absently chewing on the straw of a drink Harry hadn’t noticed him getting. 

Harry widens his eyes as far as they will go. “Like, think of how much worse it would be. For you to stop, with everyone working together.” 

“Hm,” says Liam, thoughtfully. 

“There would be… so many, like. Schemes. Slytherins are so sneaky, too. You’d have to make sure none of them happened. There’d be so, so many schemes.” 

“That’s true,” says Liam, his eyes starting to glint. “That really would be… _terrible_.” 

Harry nods vigorously. “Think of all the underage drinking,” he suggests. “Imagine all of the damage done to school property.” 

“That is a really good point,” says Liam wonderingly. He chews on his drink straw, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. “Someone should really… do something.” 

“Yeah,” agrees Harry. 

“Like _karaoke_ ,” says Liam, staunchly. 

“Definitely,” says Harry. Liam goes off, presumably to go and fix damage to school property with pop music. Harry sips the drink he doesn’t remember getting. He thinks maybe Liam gave it to him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Liam and Danielle are doing a duet to Hortense and the Muggles and Harry must set out to succeed in his quest. Somewhere in this habitat of spilt lager and table dancing is Drunk Louis. Normally, it’s quite easy to find Drunk Louis as Harry generally just listens and the loudest tone will point him in the right direction sure as a compass charm. Drunk Louis is not a solitary creature, given to burrowing and caves. Drunk Louis is a pack creature, prone to exclaiming and hanging on people. Hortense and the Muggles, however, are pretty loud. Liam is really giving it his all. 

Zayn is hanging off the back of Perrie’s dragonhide jacket, pumping one fist up in the air to Liam’s performance. Perrie seems to be doing some sort of impression that involves a lot of yodel-esque howling, like a werewolf raised in a Swiss musical. 

“Have you seen Louis?” asks Harry, tugging on Zayn’s calf. 

Zayn continues fist pumping, but his fists pump towards the cupboards towards the back of the room which is a pretty good enough answer. 

Harry dodges the evocative body rolls of the Hufflepuffs to get to the far cupboard and knocks. “Lou?” 

“I’m busy!” says Louis, and then there’s a troubling series of bangs. 

Harry frowns. “Lou, you’re not Transfiguring under the influence again, are you?” 

“… No,” says Louis. 

“Could we talk for a minute, do you think?” 

“I’m busy!” 

Harry looks around the room. “I have an extra drink!” 

The cupboard cracks open, and Louis peers out. “What do you want, then? Where’s the drink?” 

Harry passes Louis the cup he’d presumably picked up from Liam. “So, Lou, I was thinking, since the Slytherins are here and we’re having a party and everything, you can see that we, you know. We’re trucing, like, honestly. No more feud, truce-wise. Truth truce. Truthce.” 

“What are you talking about,” says Louis, chewing on the straw. “You have gone mad, haven’t you? What feud, nonsense, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Louis tries to pull the door of the cupboard but Harry puts out a hand to catch it. There’s a pointed cough from the darkness behind Louis. 

“Hi,” says Eleanor, amused, out from the recesses of the cupboard. 

“Bye,” says Louis, pushing Harry’s hand away to successfully click the cupboard closed. The suspicious series of bangs start up again.  Harry grins at the closed doors for a good solid five minutes, flush with success. He can’t tell whether the sounds are magic or sex related — a troubling quandary, in a magical school filled with hormonal witches and wizards — but either way, he is the best child of divorced parents ever. The night could only be better if it included Nick, a club loo and general sex activities, but Harry can’t ask for miracles. 

— 

The next morning, Harry wakes up on the floor of the Gryffindor common room missing his shoes and most of his clothing. He also seems to be missing his sense of direction, which seems to be a common occurrence. First-years are blithely stepping over what looks like the comatose versions of half the Gryffindor NEWT year students on their way to the portrait hole. None of the lower years seem particularly disturbed or even surprised by the sight. 

“Eeeuugh,” says a reedy voice by Harry’s elbow. It’s Louis, lying half over the miserable form of Liam, missing half his hair and featuring a nose considerably longer than the one he’d been born with. “If this is the afterlife, I want to double-die. Someone avenge my murder and then kill me, please” 

Judging by the state of Harry’s stomach, he agrees. 

“I’m never drinking again,” says Liam, miserably. 

Niall snorts, sitting up from where he’d been passed out by the fireplace. Or, judging by the state of his clothes, in the fireplace. “Said that yesterday morning, Payno.” 

“I really mean it this time,” Liam insists. 

Zayn lets out a long snore evocative of a proud Tanzanian wildebeest. Harry realises that he is, in fact, lying half on top of Zayn’s crumpled hoodie, which is attached to Zayn’s crumpled torso. 

“Good party, though,” says Harry, using Zayn’s hood to block the rays of the truly unrepentant and cruel death hex in the sky that ignorant Muggles call the sun. 

“Let’s do another next Friday,” says Louis. Louis has just finished vomiting into a Quidditch Cup from 1953. Louis is not a quitter. 

“It was nice having the Slytherins there,” says Harry tentatively, peeking out from Zayn’s hood.  

“Of course they were there, why wouldn’t they be there,” scoffs Louis, wiping his face on Liam’s jumper. 

“And Eleanor,” says Harry, ignoring the unimpressed looks Niall is shooting him from the fireplace. “We haven’t seen her that much lately.” 

“Nonsense,” scoffs Louis, “She is the Hermione Granger to my Ron Weasley. Eugh. Excuse me.” Louis vomits again, this time into the Gryffindor House Cup of 1996, which presumably was the last time Gryffindor won the House Cup. 

A couple of second-years step over Liam’s legs without breaking their conversation about the upcoming Hufflepuff/Slytherin Quidditch game. Zayn lets out another mighty wildebeest snore. There is no chance Gryffindor will win the House Cup this year, but maybe they can make it out of the negative. Harry has dreams. 


	9. Harry Styles and the Four Quid Quidditch Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gryffindors make terrible liver-related choices, Ravenclaws are unendingly unimpressed, Slytherins manage the communication deficiencies of others and Hufflepuffs laugh at everybody else's problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing is officially longer than Philosopher's Stone. In 500 words, it will also be longer than Chamber of Secrets. I know not what my life has become, but I am glad that you lot seem to like it.
> 
> Thanks to all the usual helpful pals, you are amazing, and I keep repeating your names.

April passes rainy and wet, and May dawns with a similarly sodden squelch. Their days hurtle past at an alarming rate, every sunset bringing NEWTs ever closer, not that anyone would know from looking at Harry’s housemates. 

The word in Gryffindor Tower is Quidditch, and all through May hardly anyone in a red and gold tie talks about anything else. Slytherin’s victory over Hufflepuff only increases the mania. Louis schemes for days, muttering about Hawkshead Formations in his sleep and throwing everything he can get his hands on ‘for practice’. Zayn has grown so used to the projectile torment that he can work straight through a hail of broken quills and chucked pillows. Harry’s fairly certain he’s becoming more coordinated under the constant assault. Liam has been practicing his goal stance everywhere, which can get a bit awkward when they’re trying to duel in DADA. 

The calculations for the final match of the season are relatively simple, and written all over the walls of the Gryffindor common room in bright red lipstick, which is something Harry is choosing not to question. In order to win the Quidditch Cup, Gryffindor must beat Ravenclaw by over 150 points total, or a little less than the worth of the Snitch. If Gryffindor wins by less than 125 or loses by less than 140, Slytherin will win the Cup. If Ravenclaw wins by more than 140, they take it. If the Hufflepuffs know demon magic — which is not entirely out of the question — they get the Cup. Louis has won four Quidditch Cups in his six years on the team. Harry is very afraid for the physical and emotional health of all standers-by if Louis doesn’t win this one. 

The fourth weekend of May dawns, sudden and inescapable, and Gryffindor Tower has never been tenser. At breakfast Louis hovers over everybody, monitoring their food intake — “Protein!” he keeps demanding, “More protein!” — and physically shoving bacon into Liam’s mouth. Zayn makes a comment about unfavourable wind conditions as they make their way to the pitch and Louis nearly hits him in the face. Harry makes optimistic comments at what he hopes are reasonable intervals and stays out of dick-slapping range. Only Niall seems unaffected, nonchalantly putting away an apple as everyone gears up and Louis periodically shouts things about kneecaps. 

Standing at the front of the changing rooms Louis surveys his team — and Niall, Harry and Zayn, who are honorary, at the back, doing posters — the look in his eyes is nothing short of maniacal. The blue of Louis’s irises gleam with fiendish glee. His eyebrows furrow over them in a mush of monomania. His fists clench into fleshy fathoms of fury. There are historic despots who would be jealous of Louis’s maniacal look. Nero would probably have wanted to taken notes. Harry’s pretty sure that Zayn is using Louis’s face for reference as he sketches a lion eviscerating a sickly eagle onto their banner.

Louis clears his throat. It sounds like a growl. Zayn draws faster. “It is,” Louis announces, “My last game of Gryffindor Quidditch at Hogwarts.” 

“Mine too,” notes Liam helpfully, raising one gloved hand. 

“Same,” says Perrie and Leigh-Anne at once. 

“It’s also my last one,” agrees Jade. 

“It’s my last watching,” says Niall, brightly. 

Louis scowls. “This is the _last day,_ the last bloody day, I will be Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, the last day I will be able to wreck havoc on the forces of my enemy foes.” 

“Thank god,” says Perrie, “I’m bloody exhausted.” 

Louis looks like he would really like to hex her, but is restraining himself. This is wise, because Gryffindor’s reserve Chaser is Harry. That title had been an excellent laugh until Louis realised that it had real consequences, and then he became very invested in the infirmary’s ability to fix all problems. 

“You’re exhausted because you are _weak_. They would have burnt you in Sparta and walked you off the plank into a pit of mervipers and squid.” 

Perrie sticks her tongue out at Louis, which is probably not what someone about to be planked into a nest of mervipers and squid would do. Next to Harry, Zayn makes the soft sound of battered dismay that means he is questioning his life and also his choices. Harry gives him a reassuring lick to the ear. 

“You’ll always be Quidditch Captain in my heart, Tommo,” says Liam loyally. Beneath the devotion, Liam’s eyes bubble with latent fear. He rubs the leg he’s broken three times this month. 

“That won’t matter if we _lose_ , Liam,” insists Louis, gripping his Beater’s bat. He thwacks it against his palm. “If we lose this we may as well Avada Kedavra our intestines. We may as well Crucio our feet. We may as well stab ourselves in the hearts with our wands like ancient Chinese wizards —”  

“Japanese,” says Zayn, glancing up from illustrating the blood dripping from the lion’s fangs. 

“That looks sick,” says Niall, looking over at Zayn’s lion. Niall has been drawing what Harry thinks is meant to be a claw but actually looks like a slightly pointed potato. 

“— who have shamed themselves and their ancestors and brought a metric shit-ton of suffering on their people, like we will have on King and country if you fuck up and —” 

“Queen,” says Zayn. 

“— then bring the whole of their gods raining fiendfyre and brimstone on their dicks, which is _what we should be going for_ , like a shower of actual fucking _fire_ on those eagle swot bastards speccy dicks. We can take them, we can pulverise their precious brains into the mud with our broomhandles and serve them for lunch —” 

“Gross,” says Niall, admiringly. 

“Wait, really?” asks Perrie, turning around to look at Zayn. “I thought it was that blond bloke, from the papers.” 

“— and if one Mongol even _considers_ running from danger _they all_ get put to grisly, horrible death by sword and also castration, or a slow, _brutal_ drip of blood out the distended pulverised liver —” 

“He’s a prince,” says Zayn. 

“Huh!” says Perrie. 

“ — so _no one_ can run, you hear me, or I’ll personally strangle you with your _own intestines_ and then feed your remains to flobberworms are you even _listening to me_?” Louis voice raises shrill and demanding, and he glares at Perrie and Zayn like he wishes he really were a Mongol and could dismember them and say it was for the good of the tribe. 

“Yeah, like… one of those things, maybe, was even vaguely right,” says Zayn, adding splatters of red to the banner, for the pools of blood. 

“Hope it was the flobberworms,” says Niall. 

“Uh-huh,” says Perrie, “Got it, Louis. Sodomise our enemies, burn their homes, Viking heaven, the usual.” 

“ _Mongols didn’t have Viking heaven, Perrie_ ,” hisses Louis. 

“Actually,” says Zayn. 

Harry pats Zayn’s hand, shaking his head slightly. He’s a little afraid Louis may have a magic outburst and burst their ink holders, which would ruin Niall’s potato. Harry wants to add a little red and gold top hat to it. 

Zayn sighs and goes back to inking the eagle’s ruined flesh. 

“So we’re going to play like the Mongols today, motherfuckers. Like Mongol centaurs. Scalp our enemies. Like fucking… Genghis Khan.” 

“So you’re gonna spread literacy and religious tolerance?” asks Zayn, quietly. Harry pats him on the arm. 

Louis is gaining speed now, starting to loose his maniacal fury in favour of maniacal optimism. “We’re going to chuck dead bodies with dragonpox into their cities and storm them out from the inside, like that wooden hippogriff off the Spartans —”

“Horse. Trojan horse,” says Zayn. “But that first part, that’s true.” 

“Sick,” says Niall. “Dragonpox is fuckin nasty.” 

Harry draws a little top hat on top of Niall’s potato, and Niall adds dragonpox sores. 

“We are going to burn down that pitch. We are going to salt it and put bulbadox powder on the ground so nothing will grow for a thousand years except the blood of Gryffindors, WE ARE GOING TO FUCKING _WIN_ BY 125 SODDING POINTS OR I’M GOING TO _WHIP YOU_ WITH YOUR OWN _SPINES_.” Louis wallops his bat savagely onto the bench in front of him. The bench makes a faltering noise of splintery protest and then sort of cracks and whimpers in acquiescence, which is the only possible response to Louis when he’s feeling particularly totalitarian. 

“Uh-huh,” says Leigh-Anne, picking a bit of mud off her Beater’s bat. 

“Definitely,” agrees Jade, adjusting her wrist brace. 

“With their spines,” repeats Liam, very seriously, like he’s trying to get the order down right. 

“Louis, I thought we agreed that we’d stick to maybe less of the spinal imagery,” says Professor Longbottom, coming through the changing room door. He shakes his head when he sees the poster drawing crew at the back. “Harry, Zayn, Niall, good to see you as usual, time to go.” 

“This is the last time we’ll be kicked out the changing rooms because we’re not on the team,” says Harry, feeling a bit nostalgic as they shuffle out the door. Behind them, Louis gives a howl of frustrated protest, presumably because he really likes using spinal imagery in his murderous rants, or maybe he too is keenly feeling the fleeting nature of time. 

They set off towards the stands, squinting through light drizzle. Zayn was right about unfavourable conditions. Even this constant mist will lessen visibility. Though — maybe, actually, it won’t be too bad. Off in the distance, Harry can easily make out a familiar quiffed figure.

“I’m going to —”  Harry says, awkwardly, motioning towards Nick, “Visibility check. You know! I’ll catch up.” 

“Uh-huh,” says Niall, smirking with half raised eyebrows. He shares a look at Zayn that Harry nobly ignores, because Harry is a very good friend. Unlike Niall, and his looks of judgement. Harry is merely verifying visibility conditions. It’s a noble endeavour that deserves no such raised eyebrows. 

Harry steals Niall’s extra apple as comfort for the crimes against his dignity, and trots off before Niall can steal it back. Nick starts grinning at him before Harry’s within two metres, which makes Harry feel a bit like his stomach has mounted a Nimbus 3000. 

“Hiya, Styles,” says Nick, when Harry comes to an ungraceful stop in front of him. He’s grinning wide enough to split his face. Harry’s stomach could play Quidditch for England.

“Hi,” says Harry, knocking his elbow into Nick’s. 

Nick resumes walking. “So, you looking forward to the murder show, stabby-stabby, very fun death times?” 

“Should be good,” says Harry, though he is grateful that Hogwarts has an experienced school nurse. He fiddles with his stolen apple. “The team’s been mad for training. Last week Pomfrey said that if anyone breaks another limb before the game she’d take Louis off captain.” 

Nick snorts. “And did young Louis adhere to that policy?” 

“He has Jade testing out Healing spells instead,” admits Harry. “Liam broke his leg again Tuesday.” 

“Poor Liam,” says Nick. The way they’re walking, Nick keeps bumping his shoulder against Harry’s every few steps, a rhythmic push that Harry would like to make consistent. Harry has no idea where they’re headed but that’s never bothered him. He is far more invested in sapping Nick’s body heat than anticipating his destination. 

“So what’s your bets?” Harry asks, only half thinking about how nice it would be to push Nick under the stands and maybe snog a bit in the wet grass. “You’ve made some, right?” 

Nick makes a face. “I gave up, just bet on everything. This thing has turned Matt Fincham into a clipboard-y maths demon. He keeps waving statistics in my face. He’ll be happy to know Liam broke his leg, though. Had a terrible crisis of conscious as to whether he has sufficient house pride or statistical knowledge, did Matt Fincham. Either way, I’m very sad for my future wallet.” 

“As you should be!” says Matt Fincham, veering out of the stands to join them. “All culinary funding may no longer be yours.” 

Harry very much likes Matt Fincham but if he’s honest Harry would rather Finchy fuck off a bit so that Harry can have an easier time fantasising about the space underneath the Quidditch stands. With Matt’s head in the way it’s considerably more difficult to picture whether Nick would be topless (he would be) and whether Nick would be able to fit his big hands into the front of Harry’s jeans (he could do). 

“Huh?” asks Harry, having lost the plot somewhere at ‘topless’. 

“It’s our bet,” says Nick, taking Harry’s elbow as they dodge a particularly muddy patch of field. Harry’s stomach does a little Wronski Feint. “The traditional wager. Winner of the Quidditch Cup doesn’t have to pay up for their drunk food. Well, whoever hails from that house. Deadly stakes, that.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows, picturing quite a lot of kebab. “Who has to pay?” 

“The house that comes in last,” says Matt. “People alternate. This year, it’s likely going to be Hufflepuff paying up, unless one of the teams today crashes and burns which is…” Matt looks down at his clipboard. It is, as Nick promised, thorough. “About a 1 in 6 odds, so not too bad, actually.” 

“Poor Greg and Fiona,” sighs Nick happily. 

“You can laugh,” warns Matt, “But unless some Gryffindors save the world again before June you’ll be on line for Sober Up House Cup, son.” 

Nick makes a face at Harry. “That’s when loser has to buy all the winner’s drinks. It’s well unfair, mind, as you lot are —” 

“Lively?” suggests Harry brightly. 

“Insane,” says Matt, sounding very pleased about it. 

Gryffindor’s house tally finally passed out of the negative in early April, but Matt’s right: there’s little chance they’ll catch up. In the Entrance Hall, the rubies in the Gryffindor hourglass dwindle pitifully next to the towers of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Even with the absence of surprise Petrificus Totalus attacks in the corridors, no one would exactly call the Gryffindors well-behaved. 

Nick frowns. “We’ll just have to drag the rich Gryffindors out with us, those twats. It’s unfair to make me spend my heard-earned wages _every time_. I’m on a professor’s salary, for Merlin’s sake. Practically a bit of old string and a half litre of leftover buttons, that. I can’t support your lavish lifestyle on my impoverished own, Fincham.”

“Oh, _speaking_ of,” says Matt, “Guess who’s here?” 

“Albus Dumbledore,” says Nick immediately. “Alberic Grunnion. Morgana herself. The Bloody Baron. The love of your life Romilda Vane who never said a word to you even though you sent her 13 Valentines in second year.” 

Matt makes a noise of protest and then grapples with Nick, intent clearly on giving him a dead arm. It’s all very cute and laddy but Harry would like him to stop so that Nick’s shoulder can go back to bumping up against his. 

“They were scented!” cries Nick, which makes Matt double his efforts. 

“Who’s here?” Harry asks, louder than is necessary. 

“Ow,” whines Nick, laughing and trying to duck out of Matt’s grip. “Harry, stop him, he’s being very unprofessional!” 

Matt twists Nick’s arm savagely and then steps back, satisfied with his work. Nick makes big sad eyes at Matt that don’t work an iota. Harry, as the undisputed champion of big sad eyes, can see that Nick’s are subpar but they still make him want to make Nick a cup of tea and rub his neck. Though, actually, that might not be due to the eyes. Harry usually wants to do that, anyway. 

“Ginevra Weasley herself,” says Matt, meaningfully.  

“ _Oh_ ,” says Nick, impressed. Nick and Matt do a series of eyebrow movements that bear considerable resemblance to the ones Harry has with Niall, only they must speak a different forehead dialect because the exchange is entirely incomprehensible to Harry’s eyebrow literacy.  

“What?” asks Harry, walking so close to Nick now that he’s practically stepping on his feet. 

“She’s _recruiting_ ,” says Nick, waggling his eyebrows down at him. 

“What,” repeats Harry, stopping short. “Oh my god, really?” 

“Yes,” says Matt. “She quite fancies a few of your people, there’s been some talk of recommending them.” 

“Wait, Really? Oh my god. Where?” asks Harry, gaping. 

“A few to the Harpies,” says Matt. “Not your boys, obviously, just the girls. Gin has contacts everywhere, though. I believe she’s also scouting for Puddlemere this season, and the Tornados.” 

“Fuck,” breathes Harry. He’s glad Louis doesn’t know Ginny Weasley’s here, or he might actually have an explosion of uncontrollable magic and break the stands entirely. Louis has been talking about trying out for pro since they were in first year and didn’t even have their own brooms. 

Nick is smiling at Harry with an odd, soft look in his eyes. He slings an arm about his shoulders and squeezes tight. “Let’s go say hello, shall we, love?” 

“Oh, love, is it?” inquires Matt Fincham, tilting his head at Nick and smirking. Nick ignores him. 

“Okay,” says Harry, trying to keep his flush to a minimum. 

“I think she may be up at the castle, actually, let’s go check.” 

— 

Saying hello to Ginny turns into a run-in with the house-elves and before long Harry realises that they’ve long past the time he’d meant to go back to join Zayn and Niall. Harry races back to the stands to find the whole place in uproar. It takes him a minute to figure out whether the Gryffindors are angry or pleased, as they seem to express both emotions at similar ear-piercing tenors. Louis comes hurtling at Harry and it is suddenly clear that they are happy, as Louis’s face is about 75% teeth. 

“Did you _see that last_?” he demands, tackling Harry and thumping him wildly about the head. 

Harry sucks in a breath, guilty. “Yeah,” he agrees, immediately. “It was brilliant.” 

Louis is now kicking Harry’s shins, because Louis often shows love in ways that cause physical injury. Just ask Liam’s leg. “What was your favourite time I nearly knocked someone off their broom, c’mon, tell.” 

“Uh,” says Harry. He looks round. To his left, Niall is riding about on Liam’s shoulders. To his right, Zayn is snogging Perrie with an impressive level of dedication considering how Perrie’s face is covered in mud. “That… that last one.” 

“ _Definitely_ ,” says Louis, pumping his fist in the air. “How fucking legend was that, yeah? And did you see how I bludgeoned that Chaser?” 

“Yeah, Lou,” says Harry. “It was great! It definitely, er, helped them not score—”

“You mean helped _us_ score, Harold, should get that curly head checked,” says Louis, ruffling Harry’s hair vigorously. “I _was_ brilliant though, wasn’t I?” 

“Yeah, Lou, definitely, no question,” agrees Harry, smiling as big and as guilelessly as possible. 

A mass of blue-clad figures descend on the Gryffindor celebration. Harry knows immediately that they’re not Ravenclaws, as their attire isn’t whimsical or creative enough and no one has transfigured their nose into a beak. Harry suspects that particular tradition has less to do with house pride and more to do with an excuse to transfigure themselves. 

“Calder,” says Louis, taking his hands away from Harry’s hair and folding his arms. 

“Tomlinson,” says Eleanor, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry bites his lip, his stomach give a little gurgle of nerves. 

“That was a sloppy Hawkshead formation,” says Eleanor. 

“You’re one to talk form,”  says Louis, sourly. “Your Beaters couldn’t keep their elbows taut if you petrified them.”

Eleanor smirks, stepping forward. “So is that your secret, then? I had wondered how you managed to get past your grip problems.” 

Harry looks around for any easily accessible professors, just in case. 

“ _Please_ ,” sneers Louis, “Not like you could score with fixed-size hoops and —”

Eleanor lunges at Louis and Harry looks for Matt or Neville or someone in the crowd only — no, that would be. Unnecessary, apparently. If Eleanor has attacked Louis with anything, it is her tongue. They’re wrapped up so thoroughly in each other that it is suddenly difficult to distinguish distinct limbs, snogging with a kind of ferocity that looks a bit painful. 

Harry is happy for them, but also sad for himself, because Just Friends don’t get to do violent snogging on the Quidditch Pitch. 

“Wotcher, Styles,” says Ginny Weasley, coming up behind him. She’s grinning broadly at the display, freckled cheeks bunching. “Cross-house hormones, got to love it. Nowhere to snog but in public.” 

Harry sighs, a little bit, because he would like to snog literally anywhere. 

“Think I can pry them apart?” she asks. “I have a question for the handsy one.” 

Harry assumes Ginny means Louis, who is currently grasping Eleanor’s arse with intense commitment to anatomical examination, but the moniker could equally apply to Eleanor, who is gripping Louis’s arse like she perhaps is a physical therapist with a passion for deep tissue massage. 

“Probably,” Harry says. If anyone can manage it, it has to be Ginny Weasley. 

He watches as Ginny taps Louis on the shoulder. Louis breaks messily away from Eleanor and does a double take. 

“’S that Ginny Weasley?” asks Liam, something of an ogle in his voice. “Holyhead Harpies Ginny Weasley?” Liam had Ginny’s poster on the wall next to his bed from second through fifth year, and Harry knows he still has it rolled up in his trunk and sometimes takes it out to stare at it a bit over candlelight. 

“Uh-huh,” Harry says, unable to keep from beaming. Ginny is talking to Louis now, casual and cheery. Louis’s face is making almost frighteningly dramatic transitions through a Wronksi Feint of emotions. Eleanor just looks pleased. She’s holding Louis’s hand. 

“What’s she doing talking to Lou?” asks Liam, envious. 

“She’s scouting this season,” says Harry, shifting from foot to foot because he’s having a hard time not doing a little dance of glee. 

Liam whistles, low and impressed. “Shit, son.” Harry glances over, and Liam’s eyes practically squinting into his face at the force of his smile. 

“Yeah,” agrees Harry, grabbing him about the shoulders. 

Eleanor keeps looking back at Harry and Liam and making eyebrow communications that probably have a Slytherin dialect, as Harry can only make out a series of facial exclamation points. Ginny gives Louis that megawatt grin Harry saw every morning on Liam’s poster for three years, and then thumps his shoulder loudly, whilst Eleanor makes a frantic range of punctuation marks with her face. Ginny nods at Harry and then walks off, hands in her pockets and whistling. 

Harry and Liam step up immediately. Louis seems to be forcing himself into deep breathing. 

“So?” asks Harry, beaming. 

Louis says nothing. His face has gone sort of pink and then white. 

“Puddlemere,” says Eleanor. “They want a try-out. She says he’s got a good chance of getting signed, at least as a reserve to start.” 

Louis looks faintly green, now, like a merperson. 

“Fuck, Lou, that’s incredible,” says Liam fervently. 

“You’ll make it, no question,” says Harry, because there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind. “Puddlemere, too, that’s a really brilliant team.” 

“Oldest team in the league,” says Louis faintly. “I think… I may vomit.” 

Harry and Liam exchange looks and then tackle Louis to the ground for forcible celebratory cuddles. After a few seconds, additional crushing weights on Harry’s back indicate that they’ve been joined by Zayn and Niall. 

“Weyyy!” cries Niall, pummelling Liam’s shoulders. “What’s happened why are we tackling?” 

Harry tries to answer but Niall is cackling and shoving his face into the grass so it’s a bit hard to talk. 

A little later they head up to the castle, Louis leading the florid charge of bellowing Gryffindors from atop Liam’s shoulders. Zayn falls into line towards the back with Harry. 

“Didn’t see a second of that match, didja?” Zayn asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“No, I did,” says Harry, biting his lip. 

“Just the opening pass, then?”

“… Yes,” admits Harry. 

Zayn smirks. “Don’t even know the score, do you?” 

“… No.” 

Zayn flicks his ear. “340 to 215, you idiot.” 

Harry brightens. “Wicked. Nick won’t have to buy any of his own kebabs this year.” 

Zayn gives him an incredulous look. “What even?” 

“It’s, like, a bet, see —” starts Harry, but Zayn grabs him into a headlock. 

“You’re disgusting,” Zayn says, but he’s grinning as he musses Harry’s hair so Harry doesn’t take offence. 

— 

Harry is about 75% certain that Hogwarts hadn’t intended the time between the end of lessons and the start of exams to be one continuous party. He’s fairly certain that they were meant to use this time for revision. He’s fairly certain there should not be this much vomit in the common room potted plants. 

It’s two in the afternoon and Louis and Niall are curled together on the rug in front of the fireplace, fast asleep and both sporting violently orange waistcoats and mysteriously violet hair. Next to them, Zayn and Liam are sorting their notes blithely. Well, Zayn is. Liam is muttering something incessantly under his breath that sounds vaguely violent. Harry settles next to them, dropping his bag of cumbersome tomes of knowledge he is afraid he doesn’t know with a thunk. Niall lets out a disgruntled sound but doesn’t move. 

“Do you have the Defence notes on non-verbal spells,” asks Liam frantically, grabbing the front of Harry’s shirt. 

“Yeah,” says Harry, darting a glance at Zayn to see if he has noticed Liam’s psychotic break. If Zayn has noticed, he clearly has decided not to care. Harry carefully removes Liam’s grip finger by finger. 

“I need them,” says Liam, eyes wide. 

“Okay, Li, you can have them,” says Harry, putting Liam’s hands down in his lap. He pets Liam’s hair a bit, but it doesn’t seem to help Liam as much as it usually helps Harry. Possibly a psychotic break interferes with nerve endings. Liam rummages through Harry’s notes like a psychotic niffler on the hunt for gold. 

“AHA!” Liam crows, yanking some parchment out of Harry’s bag. He brandishes it in the air for a moment, and then he’s oblivious to the world, bent over the notes and muttering to himself. Harry pokes the back of his neck, but Liam ignores it. His nerve endings have definitely been compromised. 

“Is he on doxy dust or something?” asks Harry, continuing to poke Liam’s neck. 

“Dunno,” says Zayn, referencing something in one of his textbooks. “Maybe.” 

Behind Zayn, Leigh-Anne is practicing hexes on inanimate objects. Jesy knocks her over and then they laugh hysterically, Leigh-Anne’s hex reverberating to shatter the trophy case, which only makes them laugh harder. 

The crash has clearly roused Niall, though Louis continues to snore. “Wazzat?” asks Niall, squinting at the cabinet. 

“Leigh-Anne’s destroying Hogwarts,” says Harry. 

“Oh. Wicked,” says Niall. “What time is it? Nine-ish?” 

“Two,” says Zayn. 

Niall rubs his newly purple hair. “Huh. What day is it? Sunday, like?” 

“It’s Wednesday,” says Zayn. 

“Fuck it,” says Niall. “I’m going back to sleep.” Niall curls back in to Louis, and shortly they’re snoring in lavender coiffed tandum. It’s a snoring duet. A symphony of clogged noses. Behind them, Leigh-Anne blasts another bookcase and Jesy shrieks with laughter. 

“How can you work in this?” asks Harry. He hasn’t read a single word of his notes. 

Liam mutters something about goat testicles that is either swearing or Potions revision, Harry’s not sure. 

“Just do it, I guess,” says Zayn, shrugging. 

Harry doesn’t know how one goes about just doing it. He dodges a dungbomb a first-year is throwing at another first-year across the room. It lands, and the overpowering whiff of animal dung wafts over the room. 

Harry wants a scented candle. 

“Hey, Liam,” says Harry, digging his fingers into Liam’s side, “You’re a Prefect, shouldn’t you be stopping that?” 

“Mandrake skin,” mumbles Liam. “Gillyweed, chopped beatle. No. Don’t care. Fried Egg. Goat sausage. Wait, no, that’s a recipe. Shit.” 

A glitter bomb bursts over Liam’s head and rains down over his skin. He doesn’t even shift. 

“Okay, I’m going to Nick’s,” says Harry, and packs his things. 

Harry comes back to Gryffindor Tower at half one in the morning, sneaking through the corridors and charming the Fat Lady into ‘forgetting’ the late hour. The 7th year girls are having a dance party to Elixir in the common room and Harry has to dodge Perrie and Jesy to get to the stairs, all of them waving their arms at him like some sort of species of predatory dance squids. 

“Weyyyy!” cries Niall, when Harry opens the door to their dormitory. Niall no longer has purple hair. It’s green, now, and looks more like snakes than follicles. Niall is drinking out of his old Potions cauldron whilst Zayn and Louis squabble over the record player. All the lights are on. 

“Gillyweed,” says Liam, looking up at Harry with haunted eyes. He’s on the floor, surrounded by notes. “Dittany. Yew. Fanged geranium.” 

“Fuck that fucking shite, we’re doing this proper,” snaps Louis, scowling at Zayn. 

“Fine,” says Zayn, “But that bassline off the other one is sick and this one is shit.” 

“Carriage of dicks, this is cunting nasty as arse,” says Niall, pouring unlabelled bottles into the cauldron. “Bet you 50 galleon I could chug this whole fuckin thing.” 

“Bet you I could and you can’t,” says Louis, turning away from the record player to stare Niall down. 

“I’m in,” says Zayn, swapping out a record when Louis’s back is turned. 

“Tibetan turnip,” whimpers Liam.

“I’m going to Nick’s,” says Harry, and doubles back the way he came. 

— 

Harry keeps returning to Gryffindor Tower to find that someone has transfigured the furniture into marshmallow and has dared the fifth-years into eating it all (Niall declared himself an honorary fifth-year so he could eat an ottoman), or that the sixth-years thought it’d be a laugh to play Quidditch inside and have all been concussed, or that Louis has dared all the first-years to eat Canary Creams at once and now the common room is filled with bird droppings and blue feathers and first-years who still feel like pecking people. Eventually, Harry sort of gives up and half moves in to Nick’s rooms, making his nest of blankets on the sofa semi-permanent. 

The room is dim when the insistent need to piss pulls Harry reluctantly into consciousness. He still feels hazy, half asleep and grumpy that he woke up before he got to eat whatever it was he was about to eat in his dream. Harry’s limbs move slow and heavy. He rolls off Nick’s sofa and stumbles for the loo, groping about in front of him so that he doesn’t run into anything. Harry keeps thinking he’s about to reach the wall but he doesn’t, the wall remains annoyingly standoffish and he switches directions, thinking maybe he’s aiming wrong. God, Harry is so tired and he really wishes bladders had sleep cycles. How has no one invented a charm for that, yet? 

Harry reaches the corner and feels his way around it, groping for doorknobs and then pulls, walks in and —

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” he curses as his foot knocks into something heavy that is not normally in Nick’s loo. He gropes for his leg, squeezing tight at his toes. It hurts like a bitch, and he stumbles forward, more grumpy now with the mechanics of the universe and the true lack of justice in his life. 

Harry’s hand meets something sort of stone which isn’t the wall, or the toilet. He wants to move around, but his legs have very different ideas — he stumbles over his hurt toe and then loses control of his limbs altogether, pitching forward. Harry throws his hands out to try to stop himself, catching on nothing, air slipping light through his fingers. 

Liquid hits his face and he gropes for the edges of whatever it is but the wet seems to swallow him up, sucking him down into its depths, which is not something that should happen to a person when they just wanted a piss in the middle of the night. Harry feels a bit like he’s going through a Floo, only with all the colour inverted, rushing through cold and blackness instead of light and heat. It’s starting to become uncomfortable when suddenly — 

Harry is standing in the narrow corridor of the Hogwarts Express. The train hurtles around him, walls quivering, countryside a verdant blur past the windows. Harry wobbles and nearly falls, steadying himself on the railing. The light is so bright that if Harry hadn’t already woken up a bit with the whole falling into a train on the way to the toilet thing he would have been decidedly roused. He blinks, eyes struggling to adjust. 

“Did you hear Potterwatch last night?” hisses a girl to her companion as they pass Harry. They’re walking so fast that they nearly hurtle through him. Harry watches them go, blinking, because he’s never seen either of the girls before and one of them has a Gryffindor jumper on and —

Oh. _Oh_. Oh, _shit_. 

Stone basin. Falling through liquid, into a different place and time where no one can see you. 

 _Fuck_. 

Harry has never been through a Pensieve. He doesn’t have one of his own, and it’s a bit personal to go into someone else’s and no one he’s too close with has one except, apparently: Nick. This is Nick’s memory. 

Harry immediately swivels his head to examine his surroundings, frantic like maybe there’s an exit somewhere. There has to be something, a button he can pull or a door he can walk through, because Harry doesn’t want to see this, it’s not for him. 

The train hurtles along, oblivious. Harry can see no exit in sight save, perhaps, the option to hurtle himself out a window.  Harry’s stomach plummets in a way that has little to do with the forward momentum. Maybe he can just stay out here in the corridor, miss whatever it is that Nick wants out of his head. 

Predictably, this option shortly becomes an impossibility. A knot of students round the corner, approaching Harry at a reckless pace, faces dark and set. They span the breadth of the narrow walkway. Harry has no idea whether one retains mass in a Pensieve memory. He’s not that keen on testing that option and possibly being trampled so he backs up into the compartment behind him, narrowly escaping the thundering feet of a massive Hufflepuff who careens forward, headed towards the end of the train. 

“One term down,” says a voice. Harry turns. 

It’s a boy, tall for such a young face, in an undone Hufflepuff tie. There are three boys in the compartment, maybe twelve or thirteen, all three of them rather pale and peaky.

“Seven hundred million to go,” drawls the boy by the window and Harry blinks, because that’s — that’s the boy from Nick’s Boggart. He’s different: maybe a little younger, and his expression is more shuttered than cruel, but it’s definitely the same boy, the same somewhat rounded freckled face, the nose that’s a little too big and ears that stick out. 

“Glad to be getting home, Grim?” asks the third. Harry looks over. He’s the smallest of the three, swimming a bit in his Ravenclaw cardigan. He’s looking at Nick’s Boggart boy, nudging his knee with a scuffed toe. 

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, feels his brain do frantic Arithmancy. 

“Can’t tell my parents what’s been going on this year,” says the boy from Nick’s Boggart — Nick, isn’t it, that boy is Nick — examining something on his hand. “They’ll keep me home. We have to make a pact, alright, we’re staying. Can’t leave the others behind, yeah?” Nick looks up. He’s fierce-eyed, chin set. He hadn’t as much before, but now Nick looks a great deal like that Boggart had.  

The other boys nod. The smaller one is biting at a nail and the tall one has his long legs tucked up under his chin like he wants to shrink down. The smaller one must be Matt Fincham; his features wink out at Harry as his expression shifts, the shades of the face he’ll grow into. 

“‘Course,” says Matt, loyally. He keeps gnawing at his thumbnail. 

“Greg?” asks Nick, turning his gaze on the taller boy. Harry is reminded very strongly of Louis giving his captain’s speech. 

The tall one who’s called Greg nods, attempting a grin. “You got it, mate,” says Greg, “I always wanted to go to school in a hell hole so this is really living up to my hopes.” 

Nick lets out a bark of tense laughter. “Dear Santa, this Christmas I’d like a puppy and a few more Unforgivables in my lessons. I promise I’ve been a very morally ambiguous boy this year.” 

“Bet that’s what the Carrows ask for,” says Matt. “Only they’d only want that puppy for sacrifice, or something.” 

“Rut-ro,” says Greg, in a dog voice. They all laugh, edgily. 

The corridor is still bustling behind Harry, or he’d leave now, because this is — this is a bit too much. He doesn’t know what’s happening. 

The door of their compartment bangs, suddenly, and Harry startles, scrambling into the corner of a seat to dodge it as the frame slides open. 

“Hello, everyone,” says a high, dreamy voice. “I’m afraid there are a few unexpected visitors onboard the train right now, and not all of you are answering your coins. We’re doing a roll call.” It’s Luna, far more easily recognisable as the woman Harry has met. She’s maybe Harry’s age. Incredibly, she’s not wearing anything odd either on her head or ears. 

By the window Nick is fumbling through his jacket, picking out bits of wrappers and parchment until he has a galleon in hand. “Oh,” he says, “It was too far in, I didn’t feel it.” 

Matt and Greg also hold gold coins in their palms, examining them close like they’re reading the serial number. 

“It’s best to keep it very close to the skin,” says Luna, bending over Nick’s coin to check it. “You should be more careful with that, Nicholas. You have to be able to feel the heat signature, or you ought to get into the habit of checking it more frequently.” 

“Sorry,” says Nick, flushing a bit. 

“It’s alright, I believe — oh.” Luna stands up, turning towards the door. Harry knows that Luna can’t see him, but he still pulls in closer to himself, trying to meld into the cushions. “I can feel it. Don’t worry, stay where you are. It’ll be fine.” 

Harry can’t feel whatever it is Luna is feeling, but he can see how the boys seem to shrink down, going even more pale, pulling their coats around themselves tight. Greg shuffles so that he’s further against the window, and Matt scoots back, closer to Nick. Nick doesn’t retreat, he’s inching forward, and Harry can see his knuckles white on the wood of his wand behind his leg. The compartment had been sunny a moment ago, Harry could have sworn, but it’s nearly black now. 

Three figures enter their compartment and someone makes a small, frightened sound. The two at front wear dark robes and brandish their wands. The third hovers by the door, and Harry finds it difficult to look at it straight on. All swirling robed blackness, yawning hood where a face would be: it’s a dementor,  real one. Harry has never seen anything like it before, not outside of books. The compartment is very, very quiet, but for the bone-chill rattle of the dementor’s breath. Harry hadn’t known that dementors breathed. 

“Well, what do we have here?” drawls the older wizard, his thin face almost bored. “Whose daddy has been a bad little boy?” 

Luna stands in front of the boys, expression mild. From where Harry is sitting he make out her knuckles white over the pale beech wood of her wand. “Morality is a relative concept,” she says, as calmly as if she’s sat at dinner. “Although we as a species do seem to agree on a few tenants of action.” 

“What’s she going on about?” hisses the younger wizard, crossly. 

“Philosophical treatise, Ajax, don’t strain yourself,” replies the older wizard coolly. He surveys Luna with icy eyes. “I’m quite familiar with your morality clauses, Miss Lovegood. I believe our primary disagreement, however, is not ethics, but rather taxonomy. A misidentification of species, if you will.” 

“What the fuck?” asks Nick, his eyebrows pulled together in theatrical disdain. 

“Don’t strain yourself, boy. Grim — Grimshaw, isn’t it? A juvenile wordplay, the basest truncation of vowels. Don’t fret, though. This does not apply to you. Your heritage classifies you as a wizard, as does yours, Miss Lovegood. Your companions, however, well.” The older wizard sniffs. “Not as bad as some, I suppose.” 

“Can we get the kid now, Rabastan?” Ajax scowls, impatient, cracking his knuckles. “Or are we just going to talk at them until they surrender. A-bloody-gain.” 

“Such insolence,” sighs Rabastan. He doesn’t take his eyes off Luna. He’s doing a half smile at her, as if to ask for commiseration. “He has no patience, my cousin.” 

“This is boring,” says Ajax, sullen. 

“Bet you’re all cousins,” says Nick suddenly. Matt and Greg shrink further backwards. “Isn’t that how you purebloods work?” 

“You little fuck,” snaps Ajax, and moves like he’s going to grab him. Luna slides gracefully in front of Nick. Rabastan puts out one long arm, keeping Ajax in place. 

“Let’s not have a scene,” says Rabastan. “Calm down, Miss Lovegood, we’re not here because of you.” 

“I see. Well, I don’t believe it would be wise to take any of these boys,” says Luna. 

“Your welps are your concern.” Rabastan waves a hand vaguely in the air. “I just wanted to have a little chat.” 

“About relative morality and taxonomy?” inquires Luna, politely. She tightens her grip on her wand, shifting it so that it angles towards the men. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Miss Lovegood.” Rabastan shakes his head, thin face amused and tolerant, like he’s disciplining a naughty krup. “And here I thought we would be civilised about this.” He nods at the dementor, and it swoops forward, rattling —

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” cries Luna, and a silver hare bursts from her wand. The dementor bends back as if caught in a strong wind, the hare bounding towards its hood. 

“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” says Rabastan lazily, and Luna’s wand jumps from her hand to his. The dementor swoops forward again, through the evaporated Patronus towards Luna’s wide eyes. 

Harry gropes for his wand before he can think anything through, but it’s absent. He left it by the sofa over a decade in the future. Harry reminds himself that this is a memory. If this is a memory, then it’s already occurred, then Harry knows — he knows it’ll be alright. He knows they survive this. 

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” cries another voice, cracking desperately over the vowels. 

It’s Nick. He’s on his feet, wand out, and Harry expects a dragon but Beyoncé doesn’t appear. The charm isn’t even mist. It’s vapour: pearly and pathetic, wispy tendrils evaporating into the darkened room. 

The dementor cranes its long neck at Nick, reaches out and Harry digs his fingers into his leg where his wand would normally be. A desiccated hand emerges from one billowing sleeve. Inhumanly long fingers push Nick’s wand away, digits decaying, scabbed and slimy with the grey tint of dead things. Nick makes a small, terrified sound. 

“No,” says Luna, her airy voice faint but firm. She pushes Nick gently behind her. “He’s not for you.” 

Nick buckles to the floor of the compartment. He looks very small. He’s clearly shaking. Matt Fincham grabs Nick’s shoulder where it bumps up against his leg, narrow fingers making indents in Nick’s jacket. 

The dementor wraps a talon around Luna’s upper arm and pulls her forward. Harry can’t read her expression at all. 

“There we go,” says Rabastan approvingly. “Nice and easy now, carry on.” He backs away smoothly to let the dementor lead Luna out into the corridor. Ajax scuttles out of its way, clearly discomfited by the creature’s proximity. 

“Cor, those things are disgusting,” he sniffs, like a public schoolboy criticising a subpar menu. 

Rabastan examines his nails where they lie against the pale wood of Luna’s stolen wand, idly. “The dementors are allies of the Dark Lord, Ajax. And thus they are our allies as well. Do attempt to hold onto the transitive property.” 

“Where are you taking—” Matt gulps, going silent as Rabastan turns his impassive gaze on him. Matt’s hand tightens on Nick’s jacket. 

“You said you weren’t here for her,” says Nick, voice raw. 

“Semantics, Mr. Grimshaw. I said that I wasn’t here _because_ of her. Perhaps you should focus on your listening comprehension. What _are_ they teaching at Hogwarts, these days?” 

“You meant — her father,” says Matt, halting. 

“Very good, boy,” says Rabastan. “A demonstration on the worth of halfbloods.” 

“You’re going to suck out her soul because of her _dad_?” asks Greg, like he can’t help himself. 

“Perhaps I was too hasty on that judgement,” says Rabastan. “No. _I_ would not suck out her soul, were that to be the goal. I do not possess that capability, and would leave that to our alpine companion.” 

“You’re going to kill her, then,” says Nick, flatly. 

Rabastan looks almost surprised. “Why would I do that? The Lovegoods have a reasonable lineage. That would be… crass.” 

Ajax taps his foot impatiently, craning his head out into the corridor. “Rabastan, could we skip the life lesson? I have a regatta at four.” 

Rabastan sighs, and turns for the door. “Your sporting pursuits continue to escape my interest entirely, Ajax,” he says, as they disappear from view. 

A soft weight rests on Harry’s hand and he jolts, wondering if he’s been corporeal this whole time and — it’s Nick. Harry’s Nick, older with sleep-rumpled hair. Harry can see the resemblance better now, between his Nick and the boy who’s crumpled on the ground. They have the same freckles and the same eyes, lower lashes thick like spider legs. 

Harry’s stomach plummets. “I’m so — I’m so sorry,” he says, grabbing at Nick’s hand tight, “I didn’t mean — I —” 

“You fell,” says Nick. “I know. I know you wouldn’t.” 

“I wouldn’t, I really — I really wouldn’t.”

“There’s… There’s not much left in this one. You can see, it’s alright.” 

Harry’s Nick is watching him now with an unreadable expression on his face, hand still holding Harry’s. Harry looks at younger Nick, his freckles stark against pallid skin. 

“Here,” says Matt Fincham after a tense silence. He digs through his bag and procures a few wrapped sweets. “I’ve got chocolate, go on.” He passes to Greg and Nick and they all eat, silently. Slowly, a little colour seeps back in to their cheeks. 

“Neville taught us that,” says Harry’s Nick softly in his ear, voice deceptively light. Nick’s nose brushes Harry’s skin, breath warm. “The chocolate. It’s restorative after an invigorating Dementor encounter.” 

The door clatters open and, speak of the devil. Neville Longbottom, young and handsome and rather panicked, stands in the doorway. “Did you see her? Luna?” he asks, breathing hard. 

“They — they took her,” says Nick. 

“Fuck,” swears Neville. His hands clench at his sides. “Oh, fucking… shit, Ginny!” He turns and leaves the compartment, sliding the door shut violently behind him. 

“I had the worst crush on him,” whispers Harry’s Nick, lightly. “Biceps of dreams, that young Neville Longbottom. Always curling them around the Gryffindor common room, trollop.” 

Harry feels a brief, insane stab of jealousy. His frown makes Nick’s lips quirk up at the corners. 

“Don’t fret, love, our Neville is tragically heterosexual,” Nick says, toying with Harry’s fingers. “And besides, I’ve developed a tragic partiality to beanpoles.” 

Harry flushes. 

“Fuck,” swears younger Nick, balling up a chocolate wrapper and pelting it across the compartment. “I should have — we could have — _fuck_.”

“Luna will be alright,” says Matt, levelly. He’s folding his chocolate wrapper inward into very precise triangles, smaller and smaller. “We’ve seen what — she’ll be alright.” 

Silence falls over the compartment, as oppressively as if the dementor had returned. Younger Nick shreds a second wrapper into desiccated shavings, and abruptly the train dissolves into swirling, gaping blackness. 

Harry feels untethered for a moment. Suddenly he flips as if he’s been charmed into doing some sort of nonconsensual acrobatics; he feels a bit sick until — he’s stood barefoot on reassuringly solid wood floors.

Nick must have turned a light on, because it had been all dark before. “This… isn’t the loo,” Harry says, lamely. 

“Was that what you were trying for?” inquires Nick. Nick has his hands folded where pockets would be, had he been wearing trousers with pockets. He’s not, he’s just in pants with that stretched-out Hortense and the Muggles shirt. Harry feels a bit guilty for wanting him when he ought to be making amends or something. He can’t help it, though. 

Nick nudges at the Pensieve with his feet, pushing it into the recesses of the cupboard. “Still need a wee?” 

Harry does, actually, so he goes for one, choosing the correct door this time. When he’s finished, Harry finds Nick in the living room. He’s bent over the wireless, scanning through crackling stations. 

“Late night soaps?” asks Harry. 

“My kingdom for a Charms Over Notting Hill at four in the morning,” sighs Nick, settling on WWN Beat’s late night programme. 

Harry sits at the sofa, nervously curling into himself. “Nick I’m — I’m so sorry, about that. I didn’t know how to, like. Get out of it? I’d never been in a Pensieve before.” He twists the blankets from his sofa nest over his hands tightly. 

The sofa shifts and Nick pulls Harry in by the back of his neck. Nick’s shoulder is warm, bony at the edges but soft like sleep. Harry burrows into it and breathes him in. 

“Only you would trip and fall into a bloody Pensieve, Harold,” Nick says, amused. He runs his thumb rhythmically over the skin at the back of Harry’s neck. “It’s alright. It’s… Maybe it’s good, I don’t know.” 

“Good?” asks Harry, muffled into Nick’s skin. 

“Mm,” agrees Nick. He’s quiet, then, stroking up into Harry’s hair. “It’s alright, Haz, you can ask.” 

Harry closes his eyes, pushing his face further into Nick’s neck. Nick is very solid and warm and he smells good, and he’s not angry with him. Harry doesn’t know what he’s meant to ask, though, as all his questions tumble over each other in his head. “What… what happened?” he asks, finally. 

Nick takes a breath. “It was winter hols of my third year. Luna was in sixth. Luna… Luna’s father runs a newspaper. The Quibbler.” 

“I know that,” says Harry, “I have a subscription.” 

“Of course you do,” says Nick fondly, and then goes a bit quiet. “Want a cuppa?” 

Harry nods, doing his best not to assume Nick is stalling. Nick retreats to the kitchen and returns shortly with two steaming mugs. He didn’t take long and Harry realises he must have used magic, which Harry has never seen him do for tea. Nick settles back into the sofa, passing one cup to Harry. Harry considers making a joke about tannins, but holds back. 

Nick stares into his cup and then starts again. “Well, back in the day, the Quibbler was more than the usual, ‘Vampire Baby Sucks Life Out the Minister of Magic’, ‘New Weirdo Creature Bit Found in Isle of Man’ bit. The Prophet was utter shit as usual, so Luna’s dad was the only one printing real news. Death Eaters — them two poshos off the train were ones  — they didn’t like that too much, surprise surprise. Not to mention how Luna, plus Neville and Gin, were leading the dumb loudmouths amongst us to revolt up at Hogwarts.” Nick sips his tea, gaze firmly trained on his fireplace. “Anyway, Luna’s dad got a bit too mouthy so the Death Eaters took Luna as collateral, to keep him in line. Worked a treat. Quibbler went right back to vampire babies and cannibal octopus discoveries.” 

“But she was alright,” confirms Harry a little nervously. He twines his legs around Nick’s like a cannibal octopus. “Luna. She was alright, wasn’t she?” 

“She was alright,” agrees Nick, patting Harry’s tentacle knee. “A bit dungeon-y for a bit, but alright in the end.” Nick is trying to do a very good job in seeming fine.

“Good,” says Harry, twisting his fingers through the loose hair at the nape of Nick’s neck. Harry wants to ask about Nick’s Boggart, but Nick’s forehead thing is brittle like it may crack at any moment. Instead, Harry tightens the octopus twine of his legs around Nick’s and sips his tea, wishing he could do some Not Just Friend things with Nick to cheer him up. “How dungeon-y? Hair full of stones and big locks?” 

“Eau de medieval torture porn,” says Nick. 

Harry barks a laugh. “Aura of moustachioed villain.” 

“Sound of very ominous cello for an entrance.” 

“Drips occasionally.” 

“Very clammy.” 

“Slimy, like.”

“Wouldn’t want her around at a party, unless it was themed.” 

They grin at each other stupidly. Harry is abruptly aware of how close they are, of every electric place their skin meets. The room is dim, and Nick has an awfully nice face. Harry wants to do something stupid. 

“We should probably get back to sleep,” says Harry, instead, because he’s annoyingly responsible now, apparently. He hates it a bit. Nick’s face looks oddly grateful, which makes Harry not mind so much. Harry’s in love with him. He feels sort of thick for not noticing that already. 

— 

On the sixth of June Harry wakes up in his own dormitory for once and is greeted immediately by a sea of trials and tribulations. It is officially the first day of the last session of scheduled government torture he will hopefully have to sit (and occasionally stand or walk) through. Only Louis is chipper, as Louis gave up on NEWTs sometime before he sat his OWLs and now that he has a scheduled try-out for Puddlemere in July he’s utterly lost all sense of decorum. 

The fifth and seventh-years choke stonily through breakfast whilst their ungrateful peers chatter and plan their long afternoons of lazing about by the lake and laughing at other peoples’ pain, because they’ve sat their regular school exams and are not looking at five days of examiners watching their every move and then determining their futures. The fifth-years are on their second week of examinations and have developed the shellshocked glazed eye of the spiritually broken. 

“We’ve still got our OWLs, even if we tank the NEWTs,” says Harry tentatively. Liam trains wild eyes on him and spreads porridge on his toast with a fork. 

After breakfast, the fifth and seventh-years linger tensely in the Entrance Hall whilst everyone else heads out to frolic and not worry about their futures. The first exam is the Charms written. Harry gives himself about a one in five chance of vomiting. So far he’s seen three Hufflepuffs and a Slytherin rush out towards the toilets with their hands clapped over their mouths, only to return faintly green and sweaty. At half past nine, Professor Longbottom calls them forward, class by class.   The Great Hall has been rearranged into the terror-inspiring configuration Harry remembers from his OWLs: row after row of individual tables facing an enormous hour glass on the staff table and a row of ancient examiners. Once everyone is seated and quiet, Professor Longbottom turns over the hourglass and Harry’s stomach flips accordingly. 

“You may begin,” he announces. 

Harry turns over his paper and gapes at it for a long, terrified moment. To his left, Louis is drawing a large sailboat. To his right, Zayn has started scribbling. The first question reads, _What differentiates Charms from another wand-based discipline, such as Transfiguration?_ Taking a slow, even breath, Harry bends his head and gets to work. 

Two hours later they’re stumbling out of the Great Hall, shaking the stiffness out of their limbs. Lunch is a sober affair, and before long they are herded into the chamber off the Great Hall to be called forward for their practical exams. As Harry’s surname places him towards the back of the alphabetical listing he has to squirm and wait to be called, enduring Louis’s boasts that he’s just going to charm everything to dance, regardless of instruction. 

Professor Flitwick calls him and Louis in the same group, and they file forward into the Great Hall. Louis goes to a jolly looking examiner with forest green spectacles and Harry to a wizened witch named Professor Marchbanks. Harry does his best to charm her into forgetting when his mouse turns more into a badger than a seal. Other than that, though, he thinks it goes rather well. As promised, Louis makes every single thing on the table dance, but his examiner doesn’t seem to mind too terribly. 

Harry gets a reprieve on Tuesday: whilst Louis, Liam and Zayn are herded off for another full day of exams for Transfigration, he and Niall have a blessedly truncated Care of Magical Creatures written and then a practical which is strangely soothing for an exam. They groom Aethonians and feed the thestrals and demonstrate how to calm a diricawl, and by the end Harry is muddy and exhausted and feeling much better. 

Muggle Studies goes well on Wednesday, except for one place where Harry knows he mixed up how plugs go, and he has Thursday off altogether. The only exam left is Defence Against the Dark Arts, and it’s the one for which Harry is most nervous. He makes his way through the written alright, but he does a poor showing at the practical. His hexes hardly sting and his shields are little better, and Harry’s feeling quite discouraged by the time his examiner says, “Now, why don’t we give the Patronus charm a little try?” 

Across the room, Louis’s raccoon is picking at his examiner’s long, grey hair. Harry winces. 

Harry raises his wand and tries not to think about how shit he’s done so far. “ _Expecto patronum!”_

White mist, as familiar and unwelcome as an empty box of teabags. Harry’s stomach plummets. 

“Oh dear,” says his examiner. “Well, why don’t you give it another try?” He pats Harry kindly on the shoulder. 

Harry nods and takes a deep breath, looking across the Hall. Nick is standing by the staff table, flipping through some stacks of parchment. Harry smiles, unconsciously and then — his heart does a great leap. In about six minutes, Harry will no longer be a student, technically, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

“ _Expecto patronum!”_ he cries, and his oddly horned antelope erupts from the tip of his wand and bounds the length of the table rows, careening around corners at breakneck speed until it finally dissolves. 

“Well!” says Harry’s examiner, clapping his hands together. “Very nice, Mr. Styles. You may go!” 

Harry is officially no longer a Hogwarts student. His internal organs have gained independence from his form and are doing individual dances throughout his ribs. He tries not to gallop too obviously as he exits the Great Hall, but once he’s out in the corridor Harry flat-out races back to Gryffindor Tower and high-fives all the ghosts, who seem unfamiliar with the custom. 

— 

Harry’s heart pounds deafeningly the entire time they dress. He’s trying not to get his hopes up too much, but the year is over, and Nick often frequents the Billywig of a night out and Harry — Harry’s not a student anymore. A miniature herd of winged horses have taken up residence in Harry’s gut and are flapping and pounding their feet through the lining of his stomach. Harry can’t stop analysing the evidence. All year Nick hasn’t really stopped glancing at Harry’s mouth or raking his eyes over Harry’s legs when he thinks Harry’s not looking, but Harry’s intestinal winged horses are churning up doubt under their hooves. Harry’s hands shake a bit when he does a shot out of Hubert. Hubert bites his hand. He should have gone with his antelope. 

Harry looks down at his top, feeling ambivalent about it. It’s nice on the collarbones, but is it a bad colour? He tugs it off, pulls on another. “Is this one better?” he asks Zayn, nervously. 

“Same as that last,” says Zayn, turning away from where the mirror is rhapsodising over his cheekbones. Once, the mirror wrote a sonnet about Zayn’s eyelashes. Harry’s fairly sure Zayn plans on nicking that mirror before they take the train home. 

“No,” says Harry, “This one is more of a white. The last one was more cream.” 

“Well, you are goin’ for the cream tonight,” says Niall, and then cackles hysterically, nearly spilling his pint.

Harry frowns at Niall for a minute and then grins. “Well, you’re dressed up too. I’d say you have a _vested_ interest in your outfit.” 

Louis throws a tube of hair potion at Harry without looking back. 

Harry beams, sliding his feet into his old boots. “Maybe it’s my Scottish roots, but I’d rather be _kilt_ than seen in that vest.”

“You’re not Scottish,” says Zayn in a deadened voice. He carefully manoeuvres one strand of hair from slightly leaning left, to slightly leaning right. 

“True,” says Harry, “But when it comes to clothing, I tend to _skirt_ the issue.” He beams, winged horses aflutter in his stomach. Louis, Niall and Zayn chuck whatever’s handy at him. Harry dodges dutifully, because not even his unappreciated brilliance can thwart him in his goals. 

— 

Since they’ve sat their NEWTs and are due on the train home the next morning there’s no real reason for the Gryffindor seventh-years to sneak through the corridors, but they do it anyway, for old time’s sake. 

“I’ll miss you, gorgeous,” says Louis, caressing the face of the statue of the one-eyed witch. They could have just walked out the front door, but then Louis would have missed his touching goodbye to the statue who has endorsed so many of their terrible decisions. “You’ve been so good to us. May future generations of Gryffindors woo you well.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Niall, “Let’s move it on, she’s got a long walk to Hogsmeade in there.” Niall pauses, considering this, and then snorts. “Gotta get in deep.” He snickers, quietly. 

“We really Hogs- _need_ to go,” says Harry, brightly. Zayn flicks his ear. 

“Alright, alright,” says Liam, elongating his vowels almost into a new language. He sways a bit into Zayn’s side. Liam has been drinking straight from a bottle of firewhisky with a xxxx rating for the past two hours. After his Herbology practical Liam had laughed until he cried, slept for five hours and then promptly started drinking. “ _Dissen_ …” he slurs, “ _Dissenium_.” 

The one-eyed witch remains physically intact. Liam looks so upset he might burst into tears. 

“Guess not,” says Niall. 

Liam surveys the one-eyed witch, betrayed as if she had snuck into his dormitory and set fire to all but his least favourite socks. “We need… The Billywig,” he pleads, brokenly. “Let us in, one-eyed witch.” 

“The other houses are all catching carriages,” suggests Jade. Harry turns around, surprised, because the girls hadn’t left Gryffindor with them. They’re impeccably made-up and Jade has charmed her hair purple. 

“You all look really nice,” Harry says, because they do. 

“Aw, _darling_ ,” says Jesy, throwing her arms around him. “You do too. I hope you get off with someone tonight, you deserve it.” 

Privately, Harry fervently agrees, he _does_ deserve it, but he thinks it might be weird to say so. “So do you,” he says, because Jesy also deserves some sexy touching. Really, all the seventh-years all deserve to have some sexy touching, as they’ve had seven years of schooling now and have sat their NEWTs and have helped maintain house unity. Everyone deserves orgasms and naughty feelings and shots out of animal glasses. But Harry, also. 

“I think Li just said it wrong,” says Zayn. 

“Oh, one-eyed witch. Don’t toy with my heart,” coos Louis, stroking her stone cheek. 

“ _You_ try it then,” says Liam, scowling at Zayn. His scowl looks a great deal more like a pout. 

Zayn taps the statue with his wand. “ _Dissendium_.”  With a slow creak, the one-eyed witch’s hump opens immediately. 

Liam scowls for about three seconds before throwing his arms around Zayn and squeezing tight. “I love you,” he says, face pressed to Zayn’s neck. 

Zayn laughs. “I love you too, Leeyum.” 

“That’s enough loving, let’s get to the drinking,” orders Niall, and they file through the opening one by one, sliding down to the damp earth below. 

Harry hangs off anyone who will let him as they stumble through the secret passageway, partially because he loves everybody a lot and partially because the winged horses in his stomach are making him extremely nervous and he needs a cuddle to calm himself down. 

There’s no need to be discreet as they make their way through Hogsmeade, and clearly the rest of the Hogwarts agrees. Almost the entirety of the seventh year is scattered through the queue outside the Billywig, chattering excitedly. Harry trots up to the front before he can stop himself. He’s being possessed by internal winged horses who have an invested interest in Harry’s sex life. He cannot wait in queues. 

“Hi Egon,” he says, beaming as brilliantly as possible at the doorman. 

Egon raises his bushy eyebrows, shifting his clipboard. “‘Lo, Harry.” 

“I’ve sat my NEWTs,” says Harry, hopefully. 

“Well done,” says Egon, tolerantly. “And this is important, how?” 

Harry dimples as much as he possibly can. “I love you very much Egon. We’ve been through _so_ much together. Years I spent sat outside with you and my bad fake ident, just having a chat — how’s Martha, by the way? — I really feel like we’ve forged a connection. You’re so great.” 

“Uh-huh,” says Egon, but he’s starting to smile a bit and Harry feels a punch of preemptive triumph. 

“Egon, would you mind very much just letting us in a bit? Just a little bit early?” Harry pinches his fingers, demonstrating how _very_ little they’d be jumping the queue. “Pretty please?” 

Egon shakes his head, but he’s waving him forward. Harry throws his arms around Egon and smacks his cheek loudly. “You’re the best. I’ll bring you Bertie Botts next time, promise.” 

“If I didn’t profit off that, I’d probably hate it,” remarks Zayn as they file past the front of the queue into the club. Harry nuzzles into Zayn’s neck but it’s sort of half-hearted. If he’s honest, Harry wasn’t really listening to what Zayn said. Harry’s already frantically scanning the room. The Billywig is significantly more crowded than Harry’s seen it this term, as if after the end of term Hogsmeade has unearthed a population of dance vampires from the depths of its foundations and is now letting them loose to swarm the club and impede Harry’s progress towards possible sex-related activities. 

“So what d’you think?” asks Louis, shrewdly. “Fifteen seconds? Forty-five?” 

“Even thirty, I’d guess,” says Zayn. 

“Could make it to fifty-four, it’s bloody crowded as shite in here,” says Niall. 

“He’s already making it longer than I thou— thought he would,” slurs Liam. 

“Huh?” Harry isn’t looking at the boys, eyes plundering the dimly lit corners for tall, thin people with very nice legs and penises in which he has invested interest. 

Zayn taps Harry’s shoulder. “There, mate,” he says, pointing towards the far side of the dance floor. 

Harry follows the line of Zayn’s finger and — yes, there. It’s Matt Fincham, so Nick is sure to be close. Harry starts forward, glimpsing a gangly limb around Matt’s shoulders that could be Nick’s. The arm is clad in a rolled-up plaid shirt which Harry is fairly sure he’s seen at Nick’s before — actually, Harry’s fairly sure he’s nicked it and worn it himself — and those shoes are definitely Nick’s, no question. 

“Thirty-seven,” says Niall, as Harry leaves. “Pay up, lads, Zayn’s won.” 

“As usual,” sighs Liam, disappointed. 

Harry pushes through the crowd without taking his eyes off Nick’s plaid elbow, mindless as he stumbles and apologising blindly. He wonders whether the winged horses of his stomach have actually pushed most of his internal organs towards his throat because he can feel his heart reverberating through his mouth. 

By the time Harry reaches the side of the crowd Nick is no longer hanging off Matt Fincham. Matt is dancing wildly with Ginny Weasley in a way that would be intensely entertaining were Harry not preoccupied with more important matters. He’s finding himself completely unable to tear his eyes away from the back of Nick’s head. Nick who is not, as of about eight hours ago, his professor anymore. 

Harry grasps the back of Nick’s elbow, to make him turn around. Harry wants to make Nick look at him. Nick’s allowed to look at him — look at him _properly_ now and Harry wants that, he wants that so badly. 

Nick turns around and Harry wonders whether orally expelling one's heart is a normal day-to-day activity. “Hi,” Harry says, after making a few false starts. They’re standing quite close together. Literally every ounce of Harry’s self control is needed to keep his hands to himself. He bites down hard on his lip, to get some of that tension out. Nick’s eyes train on the passage of his teeth through the flesh and Harry’s body floods with heat; he repeats the motion, more deliberately, making it slow and careful. Harry doesn’t want to have to be careful anymore. Harry’s had quite enough of careful; he’s had enough careful for the rest of his bloody life. 

“Hi. That’s, uh —” Nick coughs, his voice rough. “Quick turnover, then.” 

“Nick,” chokes Harry, itching to press his hands past the fabric of Nick’s shirt, “I’m not your student.” 

“No,” says Nick, eyes dark, voice ragged. “Guess not.” 

In fifteen seconds flat they’re stumbling into the loo, handsy and frantic, mouths too frenzied to be anything less than sloppy. It doesn’t matter — how could Harry ask for finesse when Nick’s mouth is so hot and wet over his, tasting like vodka and _Nick_ and Nick’s shirt gives way under Harry’s hands so he can slide over the skin of his torso, the patchwork of Nick’s nudity he’d spent the better part of _eight months_ thinking about when he pulled himself off at night, biting Nick’s name into his pillow to keep quiet and hoping no one was awake to hear. 

Nick presses Harry against the wall, one big hand spanning the ridge of a hipbone and keeping him tight. His other hand claws at Harry’s shirt — Harry’d chosen the white one — and he bends to bite at Harry’s collarbones, sucking what’s sure to be a wicked bruise in. Harry can’t keep from whining, breathy and desperate. “Fuck, Nick,” he manages, and Nick switches to the other side, laving his tongue over the bone before biting down. “God, fuck, _please_ just touch me, fuck, please.” 

“Shit,” chokes Nick, fingers tightening over Harry’s hip. “You sound… Good like that.” He turns his attention to Harry’s neck, spare hand cupping light and maddeningly at Harry’s jeans where he’s hard and obvious, pressed against the fabric. 

“Like what?” gasps Harry, turning his head so Nick can have better access. He gets a knee between Nick’s legs and presses up, grinding as best he can from the angle. “Begging?” Nick glides the sharp points of his teeth over Harry’s earlobe and then turns to kiss him, wet and hard. Harry shivers with it, arching towards Nick’s hand but Nick keeps it teasing, alternating pressing with a light touch, thumbing open the button of his jeans.  

“ _Please_ , Nick,” gasps Harry against Nick’s lips, as begging as he can, like he’s desperate for it. Harry _is_ desperate for it. Makes the tone easy to acquire. “I need it — c’mon, I want to suck you, taste you in my mouth, want you to fuck me, c’mon, _please_.” 

Nick makes a breathy grunt in the back of his throat and presses his body flush against Harry’s, their legs sandwiched together. “No,” he says suddenly and Harry nearly cries because he’s _tired_ of no, he’s had no for _months_ now is time for yes, _yes._

“This is so fucking ridiculous,” snorts Nick and he’s breathless, laughing. Harry can’t help but laugh a bit too, just by instinct, even though he’s so hard he could cry. “We’re going to do this properly, not in the fucking loo, for christ’s sake.” Nick kisses him again, hard and Harry makes his enthusiasm known. Harry really doesn’t care where they are, he just wants a hand on his dick. 

“C’mon,” says Nick, pulling back. “Let's— find something… Can’t Apparate — too drunk — maybe Floo.” 

“Oh, no,” whines Harry, realising suddenly what Nick means. He tightens his grip on Nick’s shoulders, hitches one leg up around Nick’s hips to pull him in. “No, no more waiting, don’t wanna wait, let’s just — _fuck_ — here, please.” 

“Not gonna fuck here please,” says Nick. His tone is light, amused but his eyes are so blown out Harry can barely see the hazel. Nick clutches his hands tight around Harry’s arse, keeps their hips flush. “Wanna do this properly. Won’t take long.” Nick extricates himself from Harry’s grip and leads him out of the loo by the hand. 

It does take long. It’s an eternity really, because Harry’s still half hard and trembling with it and the Billywig doesn’t have a properly connected Floo and Nick has to go and talk to the bartender and get them let in to the flat upstairs and then the Hogwarts connection doesn’t work. Harry’s so frustrated he can’t help but laugh about it, and soon he’s toppling out of the fireplace face-first into Nick’s flat in London. 

Harry’s never seen Nick’s flat, but he’s only interested in the bedroom right now. Or the kitchen table. Or the counter. Or the floor. Really, any surface. Or lack of surface. Harry’s adaptable. He’s waited a long time. 

Nick lands a second after Harry, significantly more competently and on his feet. Harry’s on him in seconds, grabbing his belt-loops and pulling their hips flush, biting at Nick’s lips. 

“Naked,” Harry insists, “C’mon, I’ve never seen, d’you even know how unfair that is, I —” 

Nick chuckles, sucks Harry’s tongue into his mouth and then lets it go. “Think that ought to be my line.” 

Harry really could not give less of a shit whose line it should be, only that everyone should be wearing less clothing. Nick manoeuvres them through the flat as Harry undoes his shirt buttons, stopping at walls to divest themselves of shoes and shirts and press each other up against the surface. Harry’s nearly stripped but for his pants by the time they stumble into Nick’s bedroom, Harry falling back onto the bed. 

“C’mon,” whines Harry, making grabby hands, and Nick steps out of his jeans and obeys, laying himself out over Harry carefully, the hot places where their skin meets sending Harry’s blood into overdrive.  

It’s been so long since Harry’s felt the hot press of someone’s mouth against his skin, and it’s _Nick_ , and he’s _good_ at it, his teeth harsh over Harry’s nipples and hands pinning him to the sheets. Hardly anything has happened yet and Harry feels strung out and overwhelmed and almost feral with wanting, and if Nick doesn’t get a hand on him soon he may actually cry. “Nick,” he whimpers, so far past dignity that it’s genuinely hilarious.

“Yeah,” says Nick, voice jagged. 

“C’ld you fuck me soon, please,” manages Harry, as Nick reaches his hips and is torturously mapping the skin there with his tongue. 

Nick laughs, the sound making little reverberation in the cloth of Harry’s pants. “Next,” he says, and Harry’s about to ask what he means when in one swift motion Nick’s pulled Harry’s pants down and has sucked his length into his mouth and Harry has to cry out, like a hex to the gut. 

Harry’s a nice boy. Well, Harry’s pretty sure he’s a nice boy — everybody’s mums love him and he says please and thank you, and he always sends his sister flowers on her birthday. Harry’s a nice boy, but he’s definitely sure what’s coming out of his mouth isn’t nice at all. 

He can’t help it — Nick’s mouth is so wet and his hand is twisting slow at the base of Harry’s cock — it’s all he can do but pant and moan and suggest anatomically improbable things for hippogriffs to do, a whole magizoologist’s nightmare of fornicating creatures because Merlin _fuck,_ Harry’s afraid he might actually burn up. He hopes Nick doesn’t much like his neighbours. 

When Harry finally spills, in a great aching gasp, into Nick’s mouth, Nick looks up at him from between his thighs. “Glad to see you’ve put your Care of Magical Creatures NEWT into good use,” he says. He’s grinning and wiping the corner of his mouth. 

Harry half-heartedly heaves a pillow at him. 

“’S good,” says Nick, making his way back up Harry’s body. “Very creative.” Nick’s cock presses firm against Harry’s thigh. Harry just came so fucking hard but heat stirs, promising, in his belly. 

— 

Harry wakes to dim morning light from unfamiliar curtains, sweaty and disgusting and so, so happy. Nick is still passed out, making snuffly breaths into his pillow. Harry watches the long expanse of Nick’s body stretched out diagonally across the bed, ribcage expanding slowly. There are freckles on Nick’s back, thick over the wings of his shoulder-blades. Harry’s heart swells until it can’t anymore, pressing up against his ribs with every beat. He’d like to stay where he is and look for a bit but he’s suddenly violently hungry and in need of a wee. 

He slides out from underneath Nick’s arm and creeps out of the dim room, careful not to wake him. 

Last night, when they were fucking, bodies rubbing slow and heavy and slick against each other, there was a moment when Nick’s face went so soft and open that he looked almost frightened. Harry’s thinking about it whilst he noses about Nick’s London flat, thinking about it whilst he examines the photographs on the mantle. 

“Morning,” says Nick, and Harry turns. Nick’s not naked but he’s close — long legs bare, the stretch of his chest, a scar Harry hadn’t seen last night puckering over part of his ribcage. Harry’s allowed to touch that, now. 

“Hi,” says Harry, reaching out to tuck them closer together. He folds his hands into the small of Nick’s back. 

Nick brushes a bit of hair out of Harry’s forehead. “You’re walking, so clearly I haven’t done my job properly.” 

Harry shrugs, smirking. “True. Sad. Guess you’ll just have to give it another go. Work a bit harder.” 

“Little shit,” says Nick, and he pokes Harry in the side and they grapple for a little bit. It’s almost exactly like it’s been every other day this year, except now Harry’s seen Nick naked, and he gets to touch him in inappropriate places, which is ideal. 

“Hey, Grim,” says Harry. “I told a friend that squids can regrow damaged suction cups in just 60 seconds and he believed me.”

“Oh?” asks Nick, kissing Harry lightly on the forehead.

Harry flushes, and then smirks. “There's a sucker born every minute.”

“Christ,” says Nick. “What have I got myself into. I repent. Someone put me out of my misery.” 

Harry just beams. “You like me,” he says, going to get the lay of the land that is Nick’s kitchen. They’ll have to make it back to Hogwarts before long, but there’s enough time for a cup of tea. 

“Yeah,” says Nick, behind him. “Yeah, guess I do.”  

Harry does Nick’s tea without magic, like he likes it. 

— 

They take the Floo back to Nick’s rooms in Hogwarts, and Harry makes it to the Great Hall whilst everyone is still trickling into breakfast, punctuality forgotten at the last day of term. Gryffindor is particularly sparse: half the sixth-years are missing altogether, and about a third of the fifth-years look a bit like they’ve been wrestling with Peeves. One particularly unfortunate first-year is half canary. 

“You look happy,” says Zayn, suspiciously, as Harry slides in next to him. “Where’d you sleep last night?” 

“Er,” says Harry. He tries not to look smug. 

“Niall woke up on the roof of the Aethonian barn,” says Louis, proudly, before Harry can answer. 

Harry blinks at Niall. Niall has an impressive amount of straw in his hair, to be fair. 

“True,” says Niall. He grins brightly. “The Fates were aligned, and shit. Pass the juice.” 

Harry passes the juice. To Harry’s left, Liam is asleep in a plate of eggs. Harry pats his head. He hopes it’s nice in there. Full of protein. 

“Excuse me, I have an errand,” says Louis, and hoists himself out of the Gryffindor table. 

Harry’s about to begin creating a pastoral scene of breakfast food in Liam’s hair when it becomes apparent that Louis is singing, at top volume, from atop the Hufflepuff table, foot planted in the muffin basket like a conquering explorer of carbohydrates. 

“I’M IN AZKABAN, BEING AWAY FROM YOU, BABY!” Louis must have used a Sonorus charm, because Louis is loud, but not _that_ loud. 

“What,” says Niall, jaw dropping, but in a thrilled sort of way. By Harry’s elbow, Liam gives a faint wheeze of vague protest.  

Louis brandishes a sausage, which is metaphorical of him. “YOUR GHOST IS LIKE THE SWEETEST DEMENTOR!” 

“No,” says Zayn, flatly. 

“SUCKING THE MEMORIES FROM ME!” 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Niall. 

“I CAN’T SURVIVE THIS PRISON, BABY!” 

“Is he singing to Eleanor?” asks Harry, standing up to get a better view. 

“SO PLEASE, KISS MY SOUL BACK TO ME!” 

“Huh?” croaks Liam. He peers out of the nest of his arms. 

“Don’t worry,” says Harry, “Louis is just disgracing himself.” 

“Oh,” says Liam. He puts his head back down. 

All of Gryffindor — except Zayn, who hides his face in one hand, and Liam, who is not with this world — cheers wildly when Louis finishes, whilst the other houses sort of blink at them and wonder what the Founders were thinking when they put all of them in the same living space. It’s mostly inference, but Harry’s fairly sure that’s what the looks of vague confusion and intense judgement indicate. 

“What did we just cheer for?” asks a sixth-year on the other side of Liam. 

“Who knows,” says her companion, and settles back in on her porridge. 

Louis returns to his place like a conquering hero, teeth shining with abject glee. 

“Good, yeah?” Louis asks, biting into his brandishing sausage. This is not as metaphorical. “I call it Azkaban (Being Away From You).” 

“I don’t… even know where to start,” says Zayn, wonderingly. It’s really beautiful that after eighteen years in the magical world Zayn can still find things to be surprised and disappointed about. Life is so innovative. 

“Did your girlfriend like it?” asks Niall. 

“Oh, El’s not my girlfriend,” says Louis, waving his hand to the side. “She’s the Hermione Granger to my Ron Weasley, it’s different. Pass the bacon.” 

Harry passes the bacon. At the staff table, Nick is slinking into his seat and enduring what appears to be a great deal of ribbing from Matt Fincham. Ravenclaw won the House Cup at 473 points to Gryffindor’s 7, so he has a lot of drinks to taunt Nick about. 

“Last breakfast,” says Zayn, toying with his mug. 

Harry hadn’t been thinking about that so much, but Zayn’s right. This is the last time they’ll drag themselves out of bed at too early o’clock to eat in the Great Hall, the last time they’ll sit under the gaze of the staff table and Headmistress McGonagall’s stern tartan witch’s hat. 

Hogwarts has always been here for Harry, every infuriating, enthralling stone. He looks up at the enchanted ceiling. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and Harry kissed Nick two hours ago, right on the mouth. Harry rests his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder and feels many things at once. After today, Harry will no longer have a timetable to tell him where to go. In twenty minutes, they’ll be sent back to Gryffindor Tower to pack up their trunks. In three hours, they’ll board the Hogwarts Express for the long trip south to London. Harry has no idea what his life will look like after that. 


	10. Harry Styles and the Cowardly Krup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cato Montague is a terrible name for a child, Luna has her thirty-first and a quarter Venusian birthday, and Nick thinks David Cameron is a popular Muggle film actor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised halfway through writing this chapter that I had been misspelling crup as krup throughout Accio My Heart, so here you go: this is now not only a 1D/R1 AU, this is a Harry Potter AU in which crup is spelt with a k. The world has changed so much. 
> 
> This is the last full chapter, but an epilogue is still to come. It's been a long, amazing road, pals. Thank you all very much for coming along with me.

Harry misses house elves. They’d been nigh on invisible at Hogwarts, but several months into Harry’s adult life he realises just how much they had been doing behind the scenes. The tiny flat he’s sharing with his former dormmates is _filthy_. They’ve named it Fort Freedom. It is certainly free from cleaning potions. Wrappers don’t disappear in the night; beds aren’t made up whilst they’re out for the day. No one invisibly cleans the loo. They have to make their own food and the dishes stack up in the sink, with no small hands to rapidly take them away. Zayn and Harry’s cats shit in the catbox and if they don’t clean it out no one will, and the flat floods with the pungent scent of cat piss. Louis hates to bother with cooking and leaves takeaway boxes all over the counters that grow and develop new civilisations some of which probably have their own complex and failing government system by now. The loo is poorly ventilated and some sort of black mould is growing on the ceiling. None of them are great with cleaning charms, and the first time Niall tries to scour the sink it just grows a tail. Niall finds this hilarious and names the sink Dragonsink, which is disappointing because Harry was lobbying for the Unsinkable, or possibly the Swedish Shoutspout. 

All the mess is nothing compared to the additional quandary of what happens when wizards live on their own for the first time, with no curfew or room inspections or restrictions on creative magic or professors available to reverse a spell when it goes wrong. The sitting room hasn’t had a ceiling since an incendio incident the second week of June, and the sofa regularly thinks it is a cow and moos when Harry sits on it. Harry has grown accustomed to waking up to find that the flat is raining purple goop, or that the mugs all shriek pop ballads when he tries to make a cup of tea. 

It’s lucky that they bagged a flat in a wizarding building, or they’d probably be cited for breaking the Statute of Secrecy about 700 times by now. 

There are expansion charms on the flat to make it plausible for the five of them, but that’s all it is: plausible. Harry’s room is the size of a cupboard and the wall between his and Zayn’s bedrooms sometimes goes all wonky and half built. Boarding school prepared Harry for many things, but he is not familiar with the conversational etiquette for when his wall disappears to reveal Zayn and Perrie mid-coitus. 

Harry reassures himself that it is for these reasons and no others that he spends nearly every night at Nick’s. This is so wildly unconvincing that Harry barely manages to persuade himself, let alone anyone else. 

Harry has learned that life outside Hogwarts doesn’t provide house elves. He has also learned that it doesn’t provide feasts at your table at various points throughout the day, or a dormitory assigned to you, which is why Harry and the rest of the boys are all working weird part time pre-NEWT jobs, scraping their savings for rent to keep from having to move home. Louis is selling brooms at Quality Quidditch Supplies, Zayn is hiding in corners when he’s meant to be selling books at Flourish and Blotts, Liam is becoming sick of ice cream at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and Niall spends most of his time drumming on cauldrons at Potage’s Supplies Shop. Harry personally thinks he has the best deal, as his shifts at the Magical Menagerie include playing with furry friends. Also scaly friends, and feathery friends, and friends with coatings that could only be described as ‘made entirely out of fire’ or ‘covered in three inches of slime’. 

It’s the slime that can be a problem. After a particularly glutinous shift on a Wednesday in mid-July, Harry is covered in said slime and has to go home to change. He takes the Tube back to their building — Harry doesn’t see the point of Apparating everywhere and always falls out of Floos, besides, it’s nice to use his Muggle Studies — and unlocks the door to find Louis in the centre of the sitting room transfiguring Niall’s arm into a massive bottle opener. Hubert the shot glass dragon and Harry's shot glass antelope sit on the coffee table, half filled with clear liquid.

Harry is unsurprised. Last week Harry came home to find six goats and a stone statue of Wendelin the Wobbly in the kitchen. Living with Louis is a bit like living at Hogwarts, where stairways change daily and a poltergeist pelting you with jam before nine in the morning is not an unexpected occurrence. Louis is like all the madness of Hogwarts but in a person. 

“A little wider,” says Niall, examining his distorted arm. “Bit off, now.” 

“Hi,” says Harry. “You trying to get Niall sent to St Mungo’s so you can flirt with El, again?” 

Louis looks shifty. “I have a commitment to experimentation,” he insists. “I’m innovative. Not my fault.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. He’s pulling on his shoes, about to head out to his shift at Flourish and Blotts. “Last night he did a these feathers on Liam that wouldn’t come off — fireworks kept bursting out instead — and they went in and Eleanor wasn’t there, and he pitched a tantrum.” 

Louis scowls. “Did not.” 

Liam wanders out of the kitchen, eating a carrot. “I told you she has work experience hours, not regular hours. She’s not in proper training yet or anything. You should get her schedule. I mean — never. You should never harass someone in their place of work. Never.” 

Before Louis can launch into an impassioned defence of his honour, there’s a ringing of metallic taps at the window. Five large tawny owls hover outside the glass, with thick envelopes tied to their talons. 

They all go abruptly silent. 

“Fuck,” says Liam, face entirely white. 

Silently, Zayn goes to unlatch the window. The owls soar in and land on their coffee table in a neat row, which is impressive considering the wood of the coffee table is buried under around seventeen half empty mugs of tea, several of which are growing entirely new civilizations inside. 

They approach the owls slowly. Each letter is addressed with official looking script. The one with Harry’s name on it is at the far end, and he unties the envelope from the owl’s leg, careful not to be too rough. The owls take off, diving out the window one by one. In unison, Harry and the boys rip open their envelopes. They stare mutely at their results. For a moment, the only sound in Fort Freedom is the dull roar of traffic through the open window, and the faint hiss of Onion Crisp the cat in the next room.

 

**NASTILY EXHAUSTING WIZARDING TEST RESULTS**

_PASS MARKS                             FAIL MARKS_

Outstanding (O)                            Poor (P) 

Exceeds Expectations (E)             Dreadful (D)

Acceptable (A)                             Troll (T) 

 

**_Harry Edward Styles has achieved:_ **

Care of Magical Creatures                  O

Charms                                              E

Defence Against the Dark Arts           A

Muggle Studies                                  O 

 

Harry can’t stop looking at his DADA mark. He could have sworn he had failed that one; the practical had gone dismally, except for his Patronus. He can’t believe he passed. 

Louis peers over his shoulder. “I tried to fail everything,” he says, “But I still got 3 As, which is disappointing. How’d you do?” 

Harry tilts the parchment so Louis can get a better look. 

“Swot,” says Louis, proudly. 

Zayn folds his results and puts them on the coffee table. Someone who hadn’t lived with Zayn for eight years of their life probably would have said he is smouldering moodily, but Harry can tell he’s pleased. 

“So?” asks Niall. Niall doesn’t seem too bothered, which is unsurprising. Of the five of them, only Harry, Liam and Zayn really needed their NEWT results to turn out, unless something goes terribly wrong at Louis’s Puddlemere tryout. Zayn needs Arithmancy and Potions to be E or above to be accepted into his potions apprenticeship. Niall never cared what his results were, as he says they don’t have score requirements for the apprenticeship of life. Harry could have gotten by on his OWLs, probably, but DADA and CoMC are important for most creature reserves. Liam had the worst wait: he needs five NEWTs to qualify for Auror training, and none that are under Exceeds Expectations. 

“All O’s,” says Zayn, breaking his attempted smoulder to beam goofily. “I’m in for Smethwyk’s.” Liam slaps him on the shoulder. 

“Passed everything,” says Niall, shrugging. “Me mum’ll be pleased.” 

“Only got the one T,” frowns Louis. “What did I do wrong? Was I not troll enough?”

Liam is staring down at his paper. “I did it,” he says, shakily. “I think I did it.” 

Harry looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, Liam has achieved his five E’s. 

In the celebration that follows, they break three walls and transfigure the bookcases into giraffe statues. The only thing that keeps the flat standing at any given time, Harry thinks, is how they all eventually have to go to work. 

— 

Harry is sprawled out on Nick’s sofa listening to a repeat of Charms Over Notting Hill. It’s the episode with Yolanda the long lost twin of Glenys’s sister who had died in a tragic hippogriff accident, and Harry’s heard it a few times but he doesn’t mind listening again. It’s a lazy Thursday afternoon, and Harry has the day off. He’s becoming one with fine home furnishings. He would do that in his own flat, but then the transformation would probably be literal. Harry’s nearly asleep and jolts wildly when Nick apparates into the sitting room with a pop, stray magazines fluttering with the force of it. 

“How was Hogwarts?” asks Harry, once he’s settled himself. “Meeting-y?” 

Nick looks at him for a moment and then doubles over, cackling into his knees. 

“What?” asks Harry, sitting up and grinning. That looks like a good joke that Nick is having with himself. Harry would like to be let in on it. “What’s so funny?” 

“I’ve been cursed!” cackles Nick. “Fuck, I’m part of a long line of cursing; I’ve inherited cursation. Cursed.” 

“Huh?” 

“I’ve been ’asked not to return’,” says Nick, making air quotes. “Just like every Defence prof before me! And every prof to come! They say that curse was lifted in the nineties but they lie, those liars.” 

“What?” asks Harry, affronted on Nick’s behalf and, abruptly, intensely guilty. “Was it —”

“No, Styles, not our torrid romance, thank god, I don’t think I could talk to Minerva McGonagall about my sex life without shrivelling into a ball of dehydrated horror. I think she’s been celibate since about the Napoleonic Wars, if not the Middle Ages. No, actually, it’s my methods. Bit too informal, they say. Hogwarts Governors don’t much like it.” Nick frowns for a minute, considering this. “Though, actually, I would put money on ‘methods’ being a little bit code for rampant homosexuality and wearing tight trousers with holes in, to be fair.”

“That’s fucked,” says Harry, crossly. “Maybe you could contest —”

Nick waves a hand. “Honestly, I was going to tell them I was leaning towards not going back anyway. Scotland, Harold. _Highlands_ of Scotland. What is there, even? A few sheep and a stone hut. Half a pub, vague longing of a corner store. So quiet at night; it’s _weird_. It’s like you are dead. Like you have genuinely died.” 

Harry laughs, considering this. Nick won’t be stuck up in the castle all week, come September. Warmth floods through his body, lights him up. “What’ll you do instead?” he asks, to keep himself from saying something really soppy and stupid. “Go back to the DMLE?” 

“Fuck no,” says Nick. “I’ve had enough of that paperwork. Actually…” Nick fiddles with some things on his coffee table, evens the stack of Witch Weeklys and adjusts the throw. “Actually, I have a, well. An interview. With the WWN.” Nick seems exceedingly fascinated with the knot of wood on the trunk, not removing his eyes from the pattern. 

“Really? That’s incredible!” says Harry, beaming. “That’s perfect for you. You’ll be great at it.” 

“Oh, y’know,” says Nick, lightly. “I’m just a champion at rattling on, so. Just want to fill airwaves, innit.” 

“No, genuinely. Everyone likes listening to you. That was what you were good at, with teaching, I think.” Harry bumps his forehead into Nick’s shoulder, like an affectionate ram. 

“I mean, we’ll see if I’m any use,” says Nick. “I’ll probably swear and fuck it up. Maybe there’re charms for that, Merlin knows. It’s just a meeting, anyway. We’ll see. ’S probably nothing. I could always teach at Pinkstone and Harrow, or summat. Bit more liberal, there.” 

“Either way, you’ll be bloody brilliant.” Harry pokes Nick’s cheek until Nick gives up and grins, relaxing into the sofa. “Now be quiet, Charms Over Notting Hill is about to get to the bit where Glenys finds out Yolanda isn’t really Gwenog back from the dead.” 

“Ooh, love that bit,” says Nick, maneuvering Harry into a more comfortable position. They settle down to listen to Glenys interrogate Yolanda on Gwenog’s favourite potions ingredients. 

— 

Harry has achieved his NEWTs. He had been under the impression that NEWTs were the secret to all success in life, but it seems that owls don’t deliver employment to Harry’s flat window like they did his exam scores. He stays on at the Magical Menagerie, running the till and cleaning out cages four times a week for minimum wage. It’s not so bad. Harry likes to take care of the creatures, and he likes it especially when little kids come in looking for puffskeins or colour-changing rabbits. Besides, Nick has come in this evening to pester him before they go out later. 

“So this is where you’re spending all your days, Harold,” says Nick, peering into the salamander tank. 

Harry slides his arms around Nick’s waist and smiles soppily into his back, not caring if anyone sees. Harry’s allowed to do that now. He can’t be expected not to seize the opportunity. “Yup.” 

Harry can hear the smile in Nick’s warm voice. “And here I thought it was you who were smelly, when it turns out it is your pace of business polluting my nose.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” says Harry, without any heat. 

“You’re out in twenty, yeah?” asks Nick, reaching behind himself to pat at Harry’s side. “I did reservations at that pub with the chimaera on the logo. Thought we could meet up with a few pals.” 

“Sounds good,” says Harry. 

Harry’s manager, a short witch named Penelope, pokes her head out of the back room. “Haz, could use your help back here. Customer.” 

“Got to work,” says Harry, reluctantly releasing Nick from his grip. 

Nick shrugs, following him. “Don’t mind me, I shall be a ghost of your productivity, trailing behind you whilst you sell people smelly creatures that will shit all over their floors.” 

Harry snorts. “Maybe try not to say that when we’re in there, yeah?” 

In the back room, Penelope is standing in front of the krup enclosure, explaining care procedure to a middle-aged couple in smart robes and their son, maybe about eleven. When Penelope sees Harry, her look of relief is palpable and only mildly changes when Nick follows after him.  

“This is Harry. He’s a bit more familiar with the krups, could help you find one whose temperament suits you. Harry, this is Madame Montague. She’s in the market for a krup.” 

Madame Montague smiles. “Wonderful. We’re looking for a krup who is friendly and playful, but we’d also like one who’s… perhaps a big aggressive. A bit of a guard krup, if you will.” She smiles again, meaningfully. 

Harry has been working at the Magical Menagerie long enough to know that ‘a bit of a guard krup’ is code for ‘really doesn’t like Muggles’. He feels a bit awkward. Back in the middle ages, wizards bred krups to defend them against superstitious Muggles, and it’s hard to completely eradicate that breeding. All krups tend to favour magical people, some more virulently than others. It’s not the most tolerant history, Harry knows, but that’s no fault of the krups. Still, it means that ‘a bit of a guard krup’ means a market for people who definitely don’t trust Muggles.

Harry sets his shoulders. Madame Montague is a customer, and the boy is grinning at the krups, excited. 

Harry smiles and nods and listens, and then sets them up with one of his favourites, a friendly little female with a round black spot on her right flank. 

Penelope leads the Madame Montague and her family to the front of the shop with their new pet. Behind Harry, Nick is crouched on the floor, wiggling his long fingers through the barriers to the krup play area. “Hiya!” he’s cooing. “Hiya, kruppy friends!” 

A great wave of fondness arcs through Harry’s chest, threatening to pull him under. He tackles Nick’s back, twining his arms over his shoulders to clasp at his front. The krup enclosure smells a bit wet and sour, but with Harry’s nose smooshed close to Nick’s skin all Harry can smell is Nick. Harry presses wet kisses to the back of Nick’s neck where it gapes out of his t-shirt, licking over the salt on his skin. 

“Oh, hello,” laughs Nick, a little breathily. “What’s this, then?” 

“Youthful antics,” says Harry, scraping his teeth a little close to Nick’s hairline. 

“Best stop that, or we’ll not get to our dinner,” says Nick, reaching back to grip Harry by the hair. 

“Don’t care,” says Harry. He turns his attention to the back of Nick’s ear, running the flat of his tongue along the ridge. 

“Fuck,” says Nick, in a little breath.  He grips more tightly at Harry’s hair, which only makes Harry more keen for youthful antics. “You’re a menace, you know that?” 

“Mm-hmm,” says Harry, manoeuvring so that he can slide over Nick’s legs, straddling his lap. He captures Nick’s mouth with his own, hot and messy. 

“This is your place of _work_ Styles,” chides Nick, but his long fingers are tight over the ridges of Harry’s hipbones and inching under his shirt, so Harry can tell he’s not serious. “And here you are, slagging around like this. Very unprofessional.” 

Harry would say something like, well maybe you should teach me a lesson, then, but the last time he did that Nick had gone through this very tedious crisis of conscience that was a real boner-killer. So instead of responding, Harry rocks his hips forward, pressing his erection clearly into Nick’s hip, making his attentions known. Nick gives a little hiss and then licks into Harry’s mouth fiercely, teeth scraping at Harry’s lips. 

“I guess we could be late,” says Nick, and Harry grins, triumphant. 

— 

They are definitely late. By the time Nick and Harry make it to the pub Harry feels rather sore and also extremely smug. Everyone is already a bit drunk, shouting and falling over each other when Harry and Nick slide into their seats with their drinks. 

Matt Fincham levels Nick with a knowing smirk. “Sober Up House Cup, son,” says Matt Fincham, raising his eyebrows. He shakes his empty glass so the ice clinks against itself. “Your knut, my gut. Your stallion, my galleon.” 

“That sounds like something not money,” says Harry, stifling a snort. 

“Nooo,” whines Nick, “I’m _so poor_. Where are the millionaires; make them do it.” 

Harry looks around the group. He, Nick, Neville and Ginny are the only Gryffindors, and Harry is definitely not making enough at the Menagerie for this game. 

“I’ve got it, Grim,” says a voice behind them, and Harry turns. It’s Hermione Granger, looking very incongruous both because she’s in a smart suit amongst masses of ripped jumpers and because she is in real life, and not the papers. 

“Hermione Granger, you darling of a saviour of the wizarding world,” says Nick. Hermione leans down so Nick can smack her cheek loudly, and Harry tries not to stare. “Did you bring your laddy types along with you?” 

“Out with the Weasley faction,” says Ginny, getting up to hug her. “Harry — not you, Styles — didn’t really feel like getting mobbed at a wizarding place of a Friday night, go figure. Hey, ‘Mione. Let’s go get trashed, shall we?” 

Hermione sighs, long-suffering. “I’ll leave that to you, Gin. I have court tomorrow, and a husband who will be far more hungover than yours in the morning. A gillywater, Matt?” 

“Cheers,” says Finchy. Hermione Granger and Ginny weave through the crowd, up to the bar. 

“She may have not brought her boy toys, but she did bring me,” says another voice, very amused. A man about Nick’s age is smiling down at them. He has tall hair and massive round spectacles that have subtle colour changing charms playing at the sides, lighting up the plastic turquoise and green in turn. 

Nick immediately pulls him down into a hug and they beam into each others’ shoulders. Harry does his best not to feel a bit jealous. When they pull away from each other, the man is grinning down at Harry. 

“So this is the infamous Harry Styles, then?” The man has one of those faces where Harry can tell that he’s joking, but he can’t tell what kind of joke he’s trying to make. Definitely not a pun. “Such a _scandal_ , can’t believe no one’s talking about it.”

Nick snorts. “Harry, this is Henry Holland. Henry, be nice.” 

“I’m _always_ nice,” laughs Henry. “ _You_ on the other hand…”

Nick flushes and makes a face. “Hush,” he says.  “You slag. I never get to see you, and this is how you treat me?” 

Henry lifts his hands in surrender, sliding into the seat across from Nick. “I jest, darling, I jest.”

Harry remembers Nick talking about a Henry, a while ago. “You were friends with Nick, in school? You were the one with the fake ident cards, right?” 

Henry cackles a laugh and nods, filching someone’s neglected drink from further down the table for himself. “I was in the same year as him and young Matthew, over there.” He takes a sip of the purloined beverage and makes a face, immediately swapping it out for someone else’s. “Prefect Matthew didn’t go in for the indent cards. Tiresome.” 

“If Matt had been there I probably wouldn’t have gotten the wrong age on the id,” says Nick. He darts a look over to Matt, who is chatting about something to Fiona. “Don’t tell him I said that.” 

“Well you’ve always been an idiot,” says Henry airily, but he’s grinning at Nick like he’s always liked idiots. 

Harry decides then and there that Henry is going to like him whether he wants to or not. To be honest, Harry can’t really tell if Henry likes him or not now, but if Nick’s crows feet deepen that much around him then Harry sees no other option. “What have you been doing since school?” he asks. He can’t see Henry being in the DMLE with some of Nick’s other friends, not with specs that light up in the dark. 

“Hen’s a fashion designer,” says Nick. “Every day a new taupe.” 

“Like dress robes?” asks Harry, thinking of the Hallowe’en Ball from his fifth year. He and the boys had gotten colour-coordinated dress robes with frills. They’d thought it’d be a laugh, but now everyone has pictures. 

“Eugh,” says Henry, making a face. “Ugh, no. _Hate_ a robe. So shapeless, awful. I didn’t even like them in _school_ , and there was that period where it was terribly in vogue to look like an undertaker. God knows.”

“Plus your family,” notes Nick. “They all enjoy an undertaker. In all senses of —” 

Henry raises his eyebrows. Harry’s never seen anyone successfully get Nick to lay off a joke, not if he’s on a roll, not even Matt Fincham, but when Henry’s eyebrows rise Nick clams up as sure as if Henry had laid a silencio on him. 

“No, darling, not dress robes,” continues Henry, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Muggle-inspired fashions, I suppose is what the more conservative factions would say. But I think those divisions are just outdated, aren’t they? After all, robes were once for both worlds. It’s the 21st century, people, I think we can move beyond a monk’s habit.” Henry cackles, stealing another drink that used to belong to Fiona. 

Nick slides his own drink across the table towards Henry. He’s got a look on his face like a krup who’s misbehaved. Henry smiles at him, sucking half the drink through the straw, and Nick’s shoulders go down from where they’d tensed around his ears. 

By the end of the night, Harry is still mostly unsure as to whether Henry likes him or not, but he’s pretty sure it’s just because Henry’s got one of those laughs where you can’t tell if he’s laughing with you or at you. Harry decides he’s going to believe it’s with.

— 

London hits its traditional week of overly warm weather during which everyone wails about cooling charms and anyone who’s ever lived in America or some other hot place sighs and takes great relish in showing the proper technique. Aimee spent a half hour at Nick’s complaining about how everyone else was complaining, but by the end Harry learned how to do a passable charm so he counts it as a win. Fort Freedom has a curious reaction to magic, though, possibly because it’s undergone so much. The cooling charm takes, but weakly. It’s still stifling in the sitting room. Harry lies sweating in the floor, casting more cooling charms at the ceiling every few minutes.

“I think I hate Auror training,” says Liam glumly, slumping down onto the sofa. 

Zayn looks like he is torn between saying, I told you so, and giving Liam a cuddle. Harry encourages the cuddle, so heaves himself onto the sofa to twine his arms around Liam’s shoulders. 

“Aurors are boring,” says Louis. Louis’s Puddlemere tryout is in two days and Harry hasn’t seen him out of Quidditch gear in a week. He’s used his employee discount to purchase every piece of Puddlemere United merchandise sold at Quality Quidditch Supplies. As a result, Fort Freedom’s decor is now navy blue with Puddlemere’s golden bulrushes _everywhere_. If Puddlemere doesn’t sign Louis, Harry is concerned for fire safety in the flat. Harry is already concerned for fire safety in the flat. If Puddlemere doesn’t sign Louis, he would be even _more_ concerned. 

“That’s shit,” says Niall, sprawled out on the floor. He’s throwing a Sneakoscope at the ceiling. “You should quit.” 

Liam makes a small noise like a distressed wombat. “I can’t quit!” he says, “It’s the Aurors! I got… My NEWTs! I didn’t sleep for so long. For NEWTs.” 

“NEWTs go for a lot of jobs,” points out Harry, petting Liam’s hair. 

“True,” says Zayn. “Could go for St Mungo’s, or something. Eleanor’s in Healer training now, you could ask about that.” 

“I broke my ankle yesterday,” says Louis reminiscently. “She fixed it.” 

“But…” says Liam. “I’d planned on… Auror training.” 

“And you hate it,” says Niall. 

“No,” says Liam faintly, “I just… It’s…” 

“Fucking boring,” agrees Niall. “You hate it. Quit. Do summat else.” 

The sound of the doorbell reverberates noisily through Fort Freedom. At one point the doorbell sounded like a doorbell, but that point was so very long ago it is now a distant dream. These days, the doorbell sounds like an enraged merperson out of water. At least it’s effective.

“That’ll be for you, Haz,” says Niall, chucking the Sneakoscope at him. Harry tries to catch it and fails utterly, breaking a potted plant in the process. He tries not to make direct eye-contact with Zayn, because his disappointed eyes are deadly. That plant was for Zayn’s potion ingredients. 

“I know something you don’t know!” crows Nick as soon as Harry opens the door. 

“What?” asks Harry. 

Nick leans in, secretive. “I… know who Glenys’s attic ghoul is.” 

“Don’t tell me!” cries Harry, batting Nick away. 

Nick beams, catching Harry’s wrists and holding them steady. “Charms Over Notting Hill was set to record after I had my meeting. _I_ met Glenys! I know her secrets. I know her tales!” 

“Wait, you were at your meeting? Your WWN meeting? And you lead with Glenys’s attic ghoul? What’s wrong with you —how did it go?” 

“I’ve got a job,” says Nick, “And Harold, Glenys’s attic ghoul is the _priority here_. We were both right. Not only is it her ex-husband with spattergroit, it is _also_ her ex-Auror partner because they were the same person all along! And that person was a _mer_ person! Incredible! Legend!” 

“What?” asks Harry, still stuck on ‘job’. 

“I _know_!” says Nick. “Incredible! And I’m the new radio host for the 9-11 slot on the main station. But, more importantly, _Glenys!_ Her ex-Auror partner was cursed into being a _ghoul_ that’s what the curse was. Incredible. Obsessed.” 

“Yes, that is a plot twist,” says Harry, slowly. “Wait, oh — you’ve got the job. You’re totally bricking it, aren’t you?” 

Nick looks shifty. “None of this. Tell me what you people have done to your hovel this time. I bet it’s disgusting and I’ll be shocked and appalled and want to go home and tidy up even more.” 

Harry smiles at Nick, pulls him in by curve of his lower back. “You’ll be bloody brilliant,” says Harry into the crook of Nick’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” says Nick, soft. 

Harry kisses him lightly, lingering only a little. “Now c’mon in, Liam’s having an existential crisis about Auror training, maybe you could help.” 

“ _Auror_ training,” scoffs Nick. “I don’t care what your namesake says, Auroring is bloody boring and of course Liam would hate it. Let me in, he has to go and quit immediately before he’s bored to death.” 

Harry steps aside, laughing. Nick starts complaining about the Aurors before he’s even reached the sitting room. Nick may not be a Hitwizard anymore, but DMLE rivalry dies hard. 

— 

 Nick has a proper job now, on the radio, with people in the world who listen to him, but he still seems to find a great deal of time to turn up at the Magical Menagerie during Harry’s shifts ‘by chance’ because ‘he’s in the neighbourhood’. The WWN headquarters is in Hogsmeade and Nick’s flat is in North London, so this seems highly suspect. Harry’s delighted by it.

It’s a cool Tuesday afternoon and Nick is loitering behind the counter with Harry, flipping through magazines and waiting for him to get off. The shop has been dead for ages. Harry is seriously considering a little jaunt to the supply room with Nick and a door locking charm when the bell for the door rings out, high and clear. Unlike Fort Freedom, the Magical Menagerie has a regular bell. Madame Montague and her son stride into the shop, the former looking slightly irritated and the latter vaguely bored, carrying the krup.

“Excuse me,” says Madame Montague. She doesn’t seem angry with Harry, which is helpful, but she’s clearly not entirely pleased. “I’m afraid we have a complaint.” 

“Oh?” says Harry. 

“We’ll have to exchange this krup. I’m so sorry to be any trouble, but she must have been shoddily bred. You see, she doesn’t seem to have any trouble with the Muggles. She’s also very poorly trained. Relieves herself everywhere.” 

Harry winces, and wishes that he could pass this particular experience over to Penelope. “Well, we have… An exchange program. I mean, if it’s not working out.” 

“Wonderful, we’ll do that. Bring her up here, Cato.” Madame Montague turns to raise an eyebrow at her son, who shoves the whining krup onto the counter with no regard for the creature’s personal comfort. Nick snatches her up, tugging comfortingly at the krup’s brown ears and looking cross. Madame Montague’s son — Cato — looks bored. 

“Em,” says Harry. “Penelope is in the back. She handles that paperwork.” 

Harry is fully capable of handling that paperwork but he doesn’t know if he can handle writing ‘doesn’t try to bite all Muggles’ as the reason for return. 

Madame Montague nods and leaves Harry and Nick, who is still petting the whining krup in his arms. Cato lingers behind, fiddling with an owl toy by the counter. 

“Er,” says Harry, awkwardly. “Are you, um. Are you going to miss her?” 

Cato shrugs. “Maybe a bit. We’ll get another krup, though. She’s alright, but she doesn’t mind Muggles, does she? Sorry excuse for a krup, I think.” 

Behind Harry, Nick coos into the krup’s fur. “Well,” Harry tries, “It’s not like the Muggles are trying to hurt you. You don’t need her to be aggressive towards them.” 

“Principle of the thing,” says Cato, matter-of-factly. He examines a bottle of owl feed on the counter. “Muggles are kind of weird and gross, aren’t they? Wouldn’t want your krup getting all friendly with them. Have no idea what could happen. They’re quite vicious, Muggles. Lot of murdering.” 

“No,” says Harry, frowning. “No, not really. No more than anybody.” 

“My friend Andrew says they like to do people with bombs. You know, like a dungbomb, but with loads of sharp bits and fire in it, ‘stead of smells. They just drop them on towns and burn everyone out. Pfffft.” Cato makes an explosion with his fingers, wiggling them for effect. 

Harry shifts from foot to foot. “Well, I mean. That’s not _good_ but that’s —”

“Fucking stupid,” snaps Nick, behind him. Harry hadn’t thought he was listening. Harry winces, and puts a hand on Nick’s elbow where it curves up to cradle the unwanted krup. “That’s not — That’s not how they are.” 

“Sure, whatever,” says Cato, rolling his eyes. He flips through a copy of Creature Capers. 

“It’s not,” insists Nick. “They’re just people, there’s good and bad just like wizards —” 

Cato’s mother appears out of the back room, trailed by Penelope, who is explaining their trial run program. 

“Thank you very much,” says Madame Montague. “We’ll be in touch. Cato, let’s go.” Cato tosses Creature Capers onto the counter and turns to leave. 

“Hey —” says Nick, calling after him. “Just — think about it, okay? Not everybody’s the same, yeah?” 

“Sure, whatever,” says Cato, rolling his eyes. He follows his mother out of the shop. The slam of the door carries loud and obvious through the vacant shop. 

Harry’s shift ends a minute and a half later, not a second too soon. Nick’s hands clench tight at his sides as they leave. Anger looks displaced on Nick’s genial face. It’s disconcerting, like seeing a chimera in the centre of Charring Cross, or a laptop in the Leaky Cauldron. 

Diagon Alley bustles noisily as they walk. Sound hits them from every angle, from the chattering pedestrians to the shouts of vendors hawking fresh fruit and potions remedies, but Harry can feel the silence between him and Nick tense like cling film. The queue to the apparition point takes ten minutes, but it feels much longer to Harry. Nick shoves his hands into his pockets, a bit of a feat considering how tight his jeans are. Harry touches the back of his elbow, lightly. Ahead of them, a mother and her small excitable son disapparate with a pop — Harry’s faintly impressed, as he had hated side-along apparition as a child — and it’s Harry and Nick’s turn. 

Harry’s been able to apparate for months now but it’s still uncomfortable, that ear-popping moment when he squeezes through the world. It’s strange to be standing next to Nick and then to lose him, only to hope to meet up at the end intact. If Harry’s honest, he’d prefer never to have to apparate at all, but he can tell that Nick can’t handle the crowd right now and is in no mood for Harry showing him how to navigate the Tube. 

When Harry comes to himself in the centre of Nick’s living room, Nick is tetchily tidying the shelves, moving sneakoscopes and small decorative boxes with a sort of vengeance that they likely don’t deserve. 

Harry approaches him slow, like he would the irritable rabbits at the Magical Menagerie. “Nick?” he asks, gently. 

“I just,” Nick says, abruptly. He doesn’t turn around, still slamming things back and forth on the mantle. “That fucking kid, you know?”

“Not really,” says Harry, because that’s sort of the point. 

“That stupid, _ignorant_ little bastard. He has — He’s got _no_ idea. He’s gonna fuck everything up because he’s stupid and he doesn’t _think_.” 

“Okay,” says Harry, attempting to follow. 

Nick turns around and Harry notices his white face, the awful furrow of his mouth. “It’s — I _was_ that kid. Different ballot, same bullshit. On the other side, sure, but that was _me._ I did the same fucking thing and I really fucked it, just because I didn’t stop to think for _one goddamn second_.” Nick looks wretched. Harry’s whole chest hurts. 

“Hey,” says Harry, pulling Nick into him. Nick folds into his neck. Harry feels desperately tender, holding the base of Nick’s skull. Nick’s hair smells like Harry’s shampotion, all kiwi and lime. Nick whinges that it’s like bathing ‘in the dream of a tropical island had by someone who’s never left Hull’, but he hasn’t stopped using it anyway. Harry twists his fingers into the strands. “Hey, Nick, it’s alright. Everything’s okay.” 

“He doesn’t get it,” says Nick, muffled. “No one ever bloody gets it, it’s so goddamn easy to get into.” 

“Okay. You’re going to have to explain a little more, babe,” says Harry. 

Nick gives a great, weighty sigh. Harry can feel Nick’s eyelashes flutter against the skin of his neck, the warm gust of his breath through Harry’s t-shirt. 

“Use your words,” Harry advises. He holds on tight. “You do this for a living now, you know. Going to get sacked if you keep being this rubbish at it.” 

Nick laughs at that, weakly. They’re quiet for a minute. London leaks through the walls, all sirens and shouting. Harry knows that Nick didn’t do insulation charms on purpose; he likes the bustle. Says that silencing makes it spooky, like they’re in a flat in the remote highlands of Scotland or summat. Since Nick used to live in what was essentially a flat in the remote highlands of Scotland or summat, this statement carries questionable weight. 

“It was Henry,” Nick says finally. A familiar jolt of possessiveness courses through Harry. He ignores it. “After… After the Battle. That next year.” 

“When you had to live in tents on the Quidditch Pitch?” asks Harry, remembering what Lou had once said. 

Nick makes a noise of agreement. He manoeuvres them to the sofa, and he stares down at his knees, splaying his long hands over them. Harry keeps a hand on Nick’s back but doesn’t look at him. He thinks maybe that might make it easier. 

Nick takes a shuddering breath. “You don’t… You don’t understand what it was like the year before. It was… Well, we came back to Hogwarts and it was like it _never_ happened. Sure, we were in tents, and the castle was half rubble, but at first, no one said a _goddamn thing_ when the Slytherins came back. It was like no one _remembered_ what had happened. Like they’d all been obliviated, or something. I was so… I was so furious, you know?”

“Yes,” says Harry. “That makes sense.” 

“I thought, how the _fuck_ was I expected to sit through a Potions lesson next to people who had used Unforgivables on me and my friends. How the fuck was I expected to pretend Quidditch was some fun little rivalry when these people sat by whilst psychotic bigots like the Carrows fucking _tortured_ people, you know?”

“Carrows?” 

“Couple of Death Eaters who ran Hogwarts that year. Woman called Alecto taught Muggle Studies, basically compulsory Muggle hating, telling us all that Muggleborns were like animals, less than human. Her brother Amycus did Defence Against the Dark Arts, which was more like just plain old Dark bloody Arts, to be honest. The Slytherins, I thought they were all in line with them. That’s how it seemed.

“That’s the thing, though. They weren’t. Henry had been at Hogwarts during the Carrows, sure, but he’d kept his head down. He’d had to in Slytherin, to survive. Henry hadn’t done shit to me, and even if he had, he was a fucking _kid_ and these people were threatening to kill him. Of course he would have. Only mad idiots didn’t.”

“Mad idiots like you,” says Harry. 

“Mm,” agrees Nick, vaguely. “But it didn’t matter to me if Henry had actually physically done anything. He had a green tie, he had a fancy family name, I thought he was just like all the others. The mad idiots like me agreed. We’d been in this sort of —” Nick waves a hand, “— resistance group, I guess, during the Carrows. We called it Dumbledore’s Army. Hermione started it, a few years before. Neville, Luna and Gin revived it. Not everyone was a member — Matt didn’t always say he was in, depending on the day you asked him — because it was fucking _insane_ to be, obviously. It was practically suicide. It was a target on everyone you gave a shit about. Death Eaters sliced up Neville’s face when he refused to practice the Cruciatus Curse on this girl Emily Baddock one time, and then tried to kill his grandmother when he didn’t back down. It was fucking insanity. It was a _war_. And then we come back in September the next year and suddenly, we’re dumb kids again and the professors kept saying, you know, we should be _tolerant_ , we should endorse house _unity_ , we have to _heal these wounds_ , or whatever. But I thought — I thought that was fucking _bullshit_.” 

Nick’s voice cracks, but he keeps going. It’s like Nick’s been stopping up a flood inside his chest and someone’s pulled the plug. Harry, maybe, or the boy from the shop. 

“I thought, where the _fuck_ did McGonagall get off? Sure, the staff’d try not to report misbehaviour to the Carrows, claps for them, but what had they _actually_ done to help? We literally had to _hide_ for a few weeks, in the end, to keep from getting ‘disappeared’. People kept disappearing, dragged off like Luna had, and we’d have no idea if they were alive or dead or soulless, or whatever. We’d been on our own, you know? We’d taken care of it. We’d had each others’ backs. Where were the professors when the Carrows chained up Terence Haddock in the dungeons? He was a _first_ -year. Fuck knows. We took care of it. Michael Corner — he was one of us, one of Dumbledore’s Army — got caught trying to get him out and the Carrows fucking _tortured_ _him._ Where was Professor Flitwick then? Where was McGonagall?” 

“You felt betrayed,” says Harry, his voice heavy as the ache of his heart. 

Nick nods. “We all did. And the professors could’ve hexed my bollocks off so I went for the Slytherins. And I — I was one of the worst, I think. To start. I used to… The shit I did, Harry. The shit I said to them.” Nick rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t think about it for a second. I saw a green tie, I saw a pureblood name, and it was like they were no better than a Death Eater. Like they didn’t deserve any better.” 

“And Henry?” 

Nick shakes his head. “I was… _So fucking horrible_ to him. He hadn’t done anything except survive that fucking year, which must have been _hell_. I fucked him over so many times. LMC, too, really, and she hadn’t even been _in_ Hogwarts during the Carrows year. Her parents had fucked off with her to America, which was the right call, really, nice not to get tortured for failing a test. I didn’t care, though. About any of them. I was… I was such a bullheaded little shit. I was no better than the fucking bigots I thought they were.” 

Harry keeps stroking Nick’s back, thumb sweeping over the knobs of his spine. “But he’s your friend now. Henry. You said got fake idents together and yours didn’t work, when you were sixteen. He laughed at you.” 

Nick nods again, the corners of his mouth going up a little. “One of the better bits from my illustrious youth. And believe me, that was a slow, _slow_ fucking process. Credit to Hen, really. He’s a better man than I am. I wouldn’t have forgiven me, that’s for fucking sure.” 

Harry wonders if Nick’s forgiven himself now, but he stays quiet, keeps his hand steady. 

“Luna, too. She’s the one who really got us to put a stop to the shit we were pulling. Gin and Neville, they’re so hotheaded. Well, Ginny, mostly. She was right in there with me. Not someone you want hating you, Ginny. Neville couldn’t… He went through more than most, Neville. He couldn’t calm us down. He couldn’t handle it.” Nick does a little snort. “Hermione had tried, too, after being gone the entire year and returning like a conquering saviour. God, I _hated_ her when I was fourteen. Thought she was _so_ stuck up. God, I was such an arsehole.” 

Every time Nick talks about people like Hermione Granger it startles Harry a little bit. She and Ron Weasley and Harry Potter have been smiling figures on Chocolate Frog Cards to Harry for as long as he can remember, like the war had been a date in a book and a picture of a castle burning. Whenever Nick talks about them, they start to feel too big to fit in a scrapbook. 

Harry watches Nick from the corner of his eye, moving slowly so as not to startle him. He tucks a bit of hair around Nick’s ear, gentle. “You’re not like that now, Grim. You stopped that from happening, last year. You didn’t start it.” 

Nick doesn’t say anything, staring at the spread of his fingers over his jeans, like the flood of words has dried up. Or maybe Nick just stuck in the stopper. 

Harry thinks about Nick’s Boggart, about the twisted inhuman cruelty in the boy’s freckled face. The Boggart boy was like a funhouse mirror of the boy Harry had seen in the Pensieve: Nick warped and reflected into the worst possible shape. “Nick… Is that what you’re afraid of? That you’ll be like that again?” 

Nick rests his head in his hands. “It’s fucking easy to slip into, Harry. It was so fucking easy. I catch myself… Sometimes I still do it.” 

“But you _don’t_ ,” says Harry, fiercely. “You stop yourself. You won’t be that person again because you don’t _want_ to be. It’s not an Imperius, or something. If you don’t want to be him, _don’t be him_. You were ignorant. You weren’t evil.” 

“That’s easy to say,” says Nick. “But… Haz, you weren’t there. You don’t —” 

“For fuck’s sake, Nicholas, if you say ‘you don’t get it’ one more time I will hex you,” says Harry flatly. “I will do a Bat Bogey hex to your _mouth_. And that’s disgusting. So don’t say it.” 

Nick snorts, seemingly despite himself. 

Harry pushes on, staunchly. “You’re right, I don’t know what it was like to go through what you did. I wasn’t there. But you have got to stop acting like everyone who wasn’t there has got no hope of ever possibly understanding. You’ve got to let me in, a bit. Okay? You’re sad, I get that. You’re scared. You went through a lot of shit, and it’s fucked. But it’s okay. It’s normal to be afraid like that.” 

Nick still has his face mostly hidden, but Harry can see his forehead start to smooth out. “But tortured genius looks so good on me,” he whines, high-pitched and histrionic. “All morbid and dark-coat-wearing. Collar up like a fashionable vampire.”

“Genius?” asks Harry. “Nick, you tried to make rice last week with a warming charm. _Just_ a warming charm.” 

“Rice needs to be warm!” protests Nick, sitting up. 

“It also needs water,” points out Harry. “You know, that’s how it works.” 

Nick makes a face. “Luna would say that there are many kinds of intelligence.” 

“Luna would say that you’re kind of a berk.” 

“No one understands me,” sniffs Nick. 

They smile at each other for a minute. Nick’s eyes go all liquid and he turns away, picking at a spot on the sofa with undue attention. “I may just like you, Harry Styles,” he admits.  

“I know you do,” says Harry, leaning in close to kiss Nick’s cheek. He wonders whether now is the time he tells Nick that he’s in love with him. He’s pretty sure Nick knows that already. 

“Hey, what’s going to happen to that krup?” asks Nick, clearing his throat. “She going to a nice house filled with bigots who won’t like her, again?” 

“Dunno,” says Harry. Most people don’t want krups because they tend not to trust Muggles, so it seems unlikely. Harry supposes she’ll have a nice home. “She’ll be put up for adoption with the others, I suppose.” 

“I want her,” says Nick, definitively. “You tell that Penelope that I’ve got dibs. I’ve always wanted a dog.” 

“She’s a krup,” says Harry. 

“Same same,” says Nick, waving his hand aside. “Waggedy of the tail, barky of the face. Animal friend for me.” 

“We’ll have to krup-proof your flat,” says Harry, looking around at the decor. “And we’ll need krup toys, and food, and —”

“Most important, a _name_. I’m considering Muggle Whisperer.” 

“No. You’re not calling her Muggle Whisperer.” 

“Ugh, fine. How about, Cato Montague Is A Terrible Name For A Child.” 

“No.” 

“Idiot.” 

“No! That’s mean.” 

“No, that was for you, Harold.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at Nick and then launches himself into his lap, because tongues should find things to do with themselves.

— 

“Grim and I got a krup,” says Harry, hoisting himself onto the kitchen counter at Fort Freedom. Harry’s hardly been to Fort Freedom since they brought her home, busy with settling her in and watching her when Nick’s apparated to Hogsmeade for his WWN shift. Harry likes to sit with her in front of the wireless, listening to Nick’s voice. It’s good to be home for a minute, but Harry keeps wondering what the krup and Nick are doing. 

Zayn raises an eyebrow, stirring his simmering cauldron smoothly. A greenish mist emanates from the surface, which should make Zayn look sallow but somehow only makes him more attractive. Zayn’s potions apprenticeship is going well, but he still likes to brew at home. Specifically, he likes to brew in the kitchen. Fort Freedom’s potions kitchen is another reason why Harry’s been staying so much at Nick’s. No matter how hard Harry tries, when he prepares breakfast at Fort Freedom the toast always has a bit of a taste of asphodel and wormwood, which goes very badly with eggs.

“Well,” Harry amends, “ _Grim_ got a krup. But I’m helping. She’ll like me best soon, so she’s practically mine too.” 

Zayn looks like he’s about to respond, but he’s cut off by the roar of an invading army, possibly.

“FEAR ME, ALL HUMANS, AND DESPAIR!” crows Louis, his voice booming through the flat. 

Zayn and Harry exchange looks, and then go to check. Louis is standing in the centre of the sitting room, feet planted on the coffee table and one fist thrust into the air. He’s covered almost entirely in caked-on mud. Somewhere underneath the dirt, he’s wearing Quidditch gear. Niall and Liam emerge from their bedrooms, still in pajamas, blinking sleepily at Louis. It’s two in the afternoon on a weekday. 

“Your try-out?” asks Harry. 

Louis’s face is almost entirely teeth. “Got it.” 

They all whoop and tackle him, even Zayn, who generally avoids mud and similarly grubby experiences. The group tackle leads to a round of giggly wrestling that breaks a vase, a row of potions vials and a porcelain lion figurine. 

“So what did you get, exactly?” asks Liam, when they’ve stilled. He has his head pillowed on Louis’s stomach. They’re all a little muddy by proxy now.

“Reserve Chaser,” says Louis proudly. “Their Beaters are fucking _massive_ but they say my aim is good and I’m fast.” 

“You are,” agrees Harry. 

“I know,” says Louis. “Obviously. I only did Beater for Gryffindor because everyone else was a pussy and wouldn’t aim properly. ‘Cept Leigh-Anne, but that was due to my training.” 

Harry’s pretty sure it wasn’t, but he keeps mum. 

“Did Leigh-Anne get the Magpies spot?” asks Zayn. “Pezza said she was going for it.” 

“She got Holyhead Harpies,” corrects Louis. “Reserve Chaser.” 

“Sick. The Harpies are hot,” says Niall. 

“Don’t objectify them, Niall,” says Harry, frowning. The Holyhead Harpies are an all-female team, and the second-oldest in the league. They’ve been Gemma’s favourite since she was four or five, so they’re Harry’s favourite too. “They’re brilliant Quidditch players.” 

“Sure,” says Niall. “Came second in the League last season. Doesn’t mean they’re not hot. Hazel MacFusty is a fucking _fox_.” 

Harry sighs. Hazel MacFusty is indeed a fucking fox, but it doesn’t mean Niall should objectify her Quidditch team. 

“Two down, three to go,” says Louis, content. 

“Huh?” asks Harry. 

Zayn looks over at Louis and then nods. “Careers, I think. Lou and I are set. Now it’s up to you lot.” 

Niall makes a face. “You’re all boring. We’re way too young to have _careers_. Who needs ‘em? I’m set. Got my boys, got enough sickles for a round, got a job that lets me take a break whenever. Sorted.” 

“I failed as an Auror,” says Liam miserably, turning his head into Louis’s stomach. 

“Maybe it just wasn’t fate,” says Harry, musingly. “Maybe their Diviners thought you just didn’t have… the right _Auror_.” Harry grins expectantly. They ignore him.

Louis pats Liam’s head. “Because you are not boring. That’s good.” 

“Aurors aren’t boring,” says Liam. “They’re heroic. Harry Potter’s an Auror. Harry Potter is _Head_ Auror.” 

Harry snorts. “Nick says according to Ginny Harry Potter’s more ‘in training’ to be _head Auror_.” 

“You can’t say that about Harry Potter!” objects Liam, a little scandalised. “He saved the world!” 

“Haz says he and Grimmy are getting a krup together,” says Zayn, because Zayn is worst. 

“Shush,” says Harry, rolling over to press his hand over Zayn’s mouth. Zayn licks it, which was predictable. 

“Oh _are_ you,” says Louis, delighted in that way he gets when a whole new world of mocking makes itself known. “A krup, hm? Settling down? Going to move in together, soon?” 

“It’s his krup, I’m just… friends with her,” mumbles Harry, going all red. 

“Oh, it is, is it? So he picked out her feed? Her bed? Her name?” 

“Her name!” says Harry. “He did. He did that. She’s called Puppy Power Forever.” 

“ _O_ kay,” says Niall, snorting. 

“Shut up,” says Harry. “Li, did you think about what Nick said, though? The other day? About St. Mungo’s?” 

Liam makes a long-suffering sound of agreement. “I talked to Eleanor.” 

“Oh?” asks Louis, brightly. “I mean. I don’t care. How’s she?” 

“The same as she was yesterday when you slept over at her place,” says Liam. Louis goes pink, in a smug sort of way.

“Get it, Tommo,” says Niall, appreciatively. 

“And?” asks Zayn. 

“I don’t think I want to be a Healer,” says Liam slowly. “It seems really… Tricky. And I only barely got my NEWTs. El came first in everything.” 

“Almost everything,” says Zayn.

“Grimmy said —” 

“Yeah, I know,” says Liam before Harry can finish. “I think he’s right, though. About the Medi program. I think… I think Mediwizard, maybe.”

“So Zayn’s got his antisocial dungeon stirring, I’m on fucking _Puddlemere_ , Liam’s gonna save people or some shit, Niall’s going to fuck around and probably accidentally get awarded Order of Merlin for something or other. Harold, you’re next. Can’t work at the Magical Menagerie forever, you know. You smell _awful_.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” says Harry. “Not that bad.” 

“Yeah that bad,” says Niall. “’S disgusting. And I’m thinking about travelling, actually. America, maybe. Or Peru.” 

“What’s in Peru?” asks Zayn.

Niall shrugs. “Dunno. Peru people, probably.” 

“Peruvians,” says Zayn.

“The Tarapoto Tree-Skimmers,” says Louis. “They won the South American Cup a while ago. Bloody incredible Keeper. Also, literally bloody, a lot of the time.” 

“Are you sure it’s Peruvians?” asks Liam, skeptically. “That sounds weird. It’s not Peruans?”

“It’s Peruvians,” says Zayn. 

“Whatever,” says Niall, “I just wanna go.” 

Harry lifts Zayn’s arm and inserts himself underneath it, arranging Zayn’s elbow so he’s holding Harry properly. Harry doesn’t much like the thought of them scattering around the world. He also doesn’t much like the thought of working at the Magical Menagerie forever. Even with these lingering worries, Zayn’s bony shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. Liam and Louis are bickering about nothing in particular whilst Niall laughs at them, like usual. The room is warm and bright, rare and precious London sunlight filtering through the windows. If Harry had a Pensieve, this is the sort of memory he would want to put in, so that he could live it over and over again. 

— 

Puppy’s first official outing is to a garden party thrown by Luna Lovegood. Ostensibly, the occasion for celebration is Luna’s three and a half quarter Venusian birthday. She’s turning 31 and a rotation of Venus. Harry suspects part of the reason that Nick likes Luna so much is because Luna endorses celebrating birthdays about seven or eight times a year. 

Harry makes Nick take a cab with him, as it is a good world-expanding Muggle experience, and also Apparition has started to make Harry feel nauseous. Nick spends the entire ride chatting enthusiastically to the cabbie about David Cameron. Harry’s pretty sure Nick thinks David Cameron is some form of actor in Muggle films, as the cabbie keeps going on about his performance and Nick is talking about reviews.

Luna lives in a funny little Victorian terraced house in North London, in a mixed neighbourhood of wizards and very confused Muggles. The little square of grass at the front of Luna’s house is filled with about 13 plastic flamingos in varying shades of green, which Harry probably should have expected. A tall, leafy maple tree arches over the road, its branches strung up with decorations like a Christmas tree, if Christmas trees were traditionally hung with radishes. It’s very Luna. The sun seems to peep out just for her, lighting up the white-painted brick. 

Nick and Harry knock at the front door and Luna lets them in, smiling and kissing both their cheeks. Luna is wearing a very long white sundress with a large print of diricawls and a stole made out of half fur, half feathers. 

“I like your boa!” says Nick, petting it with one hand. “It’s like a slightly strangle-y furry friend. Like if Puppy a bit wanted to murder you but was much too sleepy to carry through.” 

Luna laughs. “You should, Grim, it used to be yours. Do come in! Everyone’s in the back garden. I’m very happy you could attend.” 

Harry scoops up Puppy as they walk through the house, as she’s getting a bit too excited at all the new smells and sights to keep walking in a straight line. Harry had expected to, but he really loves Luna’s house. The style of decoration bears considerable resemblance to Nick’s, all mismatched art and antique furniture. The light filters through her big windows all warm and lifted, so Harry can see how very space and corner is filled with funny little things, straw baskets overflowing with snail shells or glass jars of buttons. The kitchen is at the back of the house, where Fiona and a very tall man who looks familiar are stood at a counter, arranging cheese on a plate. 

“Hello, Grim!” says Fiona, leaning over to kiss Nick on the cheek. “Nice of you to turn up. With a dog!” 

“Krup, actually,” corrects Harry, adjusting Puppy as Fiona comes to pet her, to show the forked tail. 

“Ooh, you’re the best little krup, aren’t you? Yes you are!” coos Fiona. Nick pretends to scoff but Harry isn’t fooled. Harry has seen Nick cradle Puppy as if she were an infant and ask if she wants any treats, because she is the loveliest krup in all the land, isn’t she? She is, isn’t she? Oh, she is!

“Come on, now,” says Luna, once Fiona has sufficiently babytalked the canine and Harry has nicked a sufficient amount of cheese. They’re ushered through the French doors to the garden, which is bustling with guests. Luna has strung fairy lights from the trees and although it’s still mid-afternoon, Harry can tell that it will be very lovely at night. 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” says Ginny Weasley, rushing up to them. Her long hair fights its way out of her messy ponytail, and she holds a chubby ginger baby in her arms. “Grimmy, take her, will you? Harry is hopeless and I need a bloody drink. Not you, Styles, the other one.”

Harry’s stomach does a swoop at the prospect of seeing real actual Harry Potter in real actual life. Harry Potter is not a real person. Harry Potter is a picture in the Daily Prophet. Harry Potter shouldn’t be at this garden party where he could be weed on by a krup who has yet to be properly housetrained. Puppy wiggles in Harry’s arms, as if she can tell she is being thought about uncharitably. 

Sure enough, across the garden, looking nervously through his iconic glasses at a plate of lemon tartlets is real actual life Harry Fucking Potter. Harry’s life is extremely surreal. Harry Potter has his hands tight in his pockets, a bit like he’s afraid to touch anything lest he break it. Harry had thought that Harry Potter would have been a bit more… imposing, sort of. Mostly, Harry Potter looks sort of amiably misplaced. Harry tries not to stare, as it’s probably rude. He turns his gaze forcibly towards Nick and Ginny again, ignoring the perplexed dessert musings of the most famous wizard in Great Britain and much of the known world.   

Unlike Harry, Nick hasn’t given real actual Harry Fucking Potter more than a second glance. 

“Mother of the year, Gin,” Nick is saying, laughing at her. He hoists the child into his arms like it’s nothing, and squints down fondly into the infant’s pudgy face. “Hello, Lilybean. Let’s go see what your brothers are up to, hm? They’re much more capable of words than you are, and thus they are much more fun!” The baby gurgles up at him, palming Nick’s chin with one tiny hand. Nick catches it and the baby holds on, her little palm small and chubby over Nick’s long finger. “Oh, no, don’t give me that,  Lils. You know you’re really my favourite.” 

Harry blinks at Nick. Nick gives Harry a fond little smile, kisses his cheek and departs, toting baby Lily over to a corner of the garden where a rowdy group of small children are playing gobstones and throwing uprooted plants at each other. The two events seem to be connected in the impenetrable logic of the games of small children. 

Ginny gives a great sigh of relief, watching Nick go. “Finally, space to breathe. I love those kids, but they’re a handful. Though, it’s sort of a win-lose, really. Grim is great with them but they’ll all end up covered in mud and missing their trainers. Merlin bless cleaning charms, eh?” 

Across the garden Nick is letting a fierce-looking ginger six-year-old clamber all over his back whilst a toddler in a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt smashes cake into his face. Nick is laughing, loud and unrestrained. Harry’s ribs feel too small for what they need to contain. 

“Oh, you’re having an _emotion_ , aren’t you?” asks Ginny, one side of her mouth stretching up into a grin. 

“Yeah,” says Harry, voice a bit thick. 

“Cheers. I’ll leave you to have feelings. I’m going to have an alcoholic beverage.” Ginny makes a beeline for the kitchen. Puppy, tired of the lack of attention, licks at Harry’s face. Harry sets her down on the grass. She runs towards Nick and the kids immediately, without a second glance. Harry would feel abandoned, only he’s pretty sure he just wishes he had a camera and maybe somewhere where he could fall to the floor and have a feeling for a bit. 

Puppy bounds into the arms of the messy-haired six-year-old and licks his face enthusiastically, her forked tail wagging so fast it’s almost a blur. It’s a good thing Puppy had not been adopted as a guard krup. She is deeply trusting of strangers. Nick’s hyena cackle rings across the crowd again. Harry thinks he could pick Nick’s laugh out of any noisy crowd in a flat second; it’s like a homing beacon. Harry would know Nick’s laugh anywhere. 

Harry is allowed to kiss Nick whenever he wants to now. Maybe this what his life is going to look like from now on. Even if he works at the Magical Menagerie forever, Harry thinks it would be enough, so long as he could hear Nick’s laugh and kiss him whenever he wanted to. 

Luna approaches him quietly, appearing at his elbow without warning. “Hello, Harold. Are you ready for verbal exchange or are you still experiencing romantic and paternal urges?” she asks, placidly. 

“Um,” says Harry. He yanks his eyes away from where Nick is now tickling cake bits over the stomach of baby Lily, who is squealing with glee. “Not sure.” 

“Alright,” says Luna. “We can stand here and observe for a moment, until you are finished.” 

Across the garden, the redheaded boy sits atop Nick’s shoulders, waving a stick like a sword. “Do you mind that they’re sort of ruining your garden?” asks Harry. All the flowers in that corner have been either trampled or uprooted, and Puppy is currently digging through a rose bush like it has secret treasure underneath. 

“They aren’t ruining anything,” says Luna. “That would imply that there is a way that things should be, in the first place.” She smiles, soft and human. 

“That’s a good way to look at it,” says Harry. He thinks that if more people thought the way Luna did, maybe they would be happier. Also, maybe the neighbours wouldn’t send Louis and the rest of them so many Howlers about flooding. 

Luna tucks into a plate of cake. “Do you feel less emotionally volatile, now?” 

“I think so,” says Harry. He does feel less croaky. 

“Lovely. I had wanted to speak to you a bit about occupations, you see. Have you received your NEWT scores yet?” 

Harry nods. “Last month.” He’s been applying to things every day, but so far he hasn’t heard anything. It’s okay, but Harry had hoped for a bit more than tending the till every day. 

Luna looks pleased. “That’s very convenient. I don’t particularly see the relevance of state examination — you know, the other Harry and Ronald and Neville never sat their NEWTs — but certain occupations do get quite tetchy about it. You see, my friend Jeffrey runs a creature reserve in Regent’s Park, and they’re looking for someone who might like to apprentice in animal care. I thought you might enjoy it. They have a lovely sphinx there named Alberta.” 

Harry blinks at Luna. “Wait. Really?” 

“Really,” says Luna. “I thought Alberta was a rather British name for a sphinx, but she insists that’s what she’s called.” 

“No,” says Harry slowly, “I mean — though, that’s really interesting, her name, I just — I meant —” 

“Yes,” says Luna, smiling. “They really are looking for an apprentice. They’d quite like you there, I believe. That’s where I began, as well. And I thought, if you might like to, perhaps sometime you could come along and assist me on my field work in a few months. I found your thoughts on the Ninkadull Eagle People to be very informative and illuminating.”

Harry does not feel emotionally prepared for this many good things to happen to him all at the same time. Nick has already had cake smooshed into his face by a baby in a Holyhead Harpies onesie today; there’s only so much Harry’s heart can hold without overflowing. Harry can’t really keep it in. He throws his arms around Luna’s feathery stole and squeezes tight. She laughs, high and twinkly like the peel of a bell, and pats his back. 

“Sorry,” says Harry, when he finally pulls away. “I’m just not sure what to say.” 

“Say thank you,” says Luna. “And then I’ll say, you’re welcome, and then we’ll go and eat some cake.” 

“Thank you,” says Harry earnestly. 

“You’re welcome,” says Luna, and then, as promised, they go and eat some cake.


	11. Epilogue: Nineteen Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone, even the shot glasses, lives happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Accio My Heart is not quite as long as Prisoner of Azkaban, but it is longer than both Chamber of Secrets and Philosopher's Stone. 
> 
> I've had many wonderful friends and supporters come along with me as I've written this behemoth, and all of them deserve endless accolades. Thank you very much especially to Bee, who started me on this journey and helped carry me through it. Everyone else to whom I've ever whined or sent many poorly grammar-ed emails, thank you as well. Thanks to everyone who's liked this so much and been enthusiastic and engaged and asked questions, I couldn't have done it without you, either! I've been very lucky I think with my readers; I couldn't ask for anything more. 
> 
> So without further ado, the epilogue. I hope you like it.

They’re late. Nick had said they were going to be late about eight or nine times, but Piper kept running up to her room to add scarves and records to her stuffed trunk and Felix kept wanting to show Harry his new Chocolate Frog cards, and Harry can never bring himself to say no, honey, we have to go. So they’re late, careening through King’s Cross Station towards platform nine and three-quarters. Harry knows that they must make an odd picture, rushing through the station: two tall, harried men in torn-up skinny jeans, two curly-haired kids, a yowling cat in a carrier and a massive school trunk.

“Slow down,” commands Nick from behind their laden trolley. “You people can’t go so fast; I’m _old_.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. A minute earlier, Nick had been urging them to speed up. “Nicholas, if you’re old, I’m old.” 

Nick sniffs. “You are in your youthful thirties. You know nothing of the horrors of your forties. My knees are doing things you can’t even imagine. My hip alone —”

“Weren’t complaining about your hip last night,” murmurs Harry, sidling up close to Nick’s ear. Nick smirks, sacrificing the trolley’s trajectory to swat Harry’s arse with one hand.

“Stop it, you’re both old,” says Piper, pulling at the front of the trolley to keep it on course. “This day is about _me_.” 

“And me,” adds Felix, helpfully. 

“No,” says Piper, frowning at her little brother. “Me. Right? It’s about me, right? Fee in two years, today is mine. Right?”

“It’s about all of us,” corrects Harry gently. “Remember how we were talking about community?” 

“I’m my own community,” mutters Piper, scowling. “Look, we’re here. We run straight through, right?” 

Ahead of them looms the barrier that separates stations nine and ten. Oblivious Muggles walk past the brick, wheeling suitcases and sparing only the most fleeting of curious glances for the ragtag family stopped there. 

“That’s the one!” says Nick. “Nine and three quarters, but you don’t have to aim. The whole thing goes on in. Or you can do a bit of a walk, maybe a skip if you’re nervous. Don’t worry, it’ll be — ”

But she’s already gone, rucksack swinging as she careens through the brick. 

“Gryffindor,” says Nick, turning to Harry. “I told you. Every galleon I own. Gryffindor, for sure. We’ll have to pass her down Hubert as an OWL year present, it’s only downhill from here.” 

“Every galleon you own is every galleon I own,” says Harry. “I just don’t think we know, yet. We’ll see.” 

“She’ll probably be a Slytherin,” mutters Felix darkly, glaring at the brick wall through which Piper has just disappeared. 

“Hey! That’s not a bad thing,” says Harry, frowning. “Who said that it was a bad thing? Slytherin’s a brilliant house. Aunt Gemma was in Slytherin, and so was Aunt Eleanor. And so’s Kate. Loads of people.”

“Bet it was Jack,” grumbles Nick. “I told Louis to stop telling him that rivalry shite, he’d take it to heart.” 

“Lou’s just excited that Jack made the Gryffindor team,” says Harry, but then he thinks about it for a minute. “Yeah, he may have gotten a bit… carried away.” 

Nick snorts and flicks Harry’s ear. “Come on, let’s not leave Pipes waiting,” says Nick. “Here, Haz, put Fee up here.” 

Harry scoops up Felix — at nine and gangly, he’s getting heavy — and sits him on Piper’s school trunk. “There, now you can go through with Papa.” 

“It doesn’t hurt, right?” asks Felix, his big eyes nervous.

Harry hugs him, tight and fast. “No, pygmy puff. Doesn’t hurt at all.” 

“Ugh, Dad, don’t _call_ me that,” whines Felix, but he’s smiling again, his forehead smoothed out. Sometimes Fee reminds Harry so strongly of Nick that it’s uncanny. 

“Go on, Harold,” says Nick, checking his watch and shooing him forward with a flap of his other hand. “Meet up with Piper, make sure she doesn’t get abducted or summat, hurry up. We’ll be behind you.” 

Harry takes the barrier at a brisk walk, ghosting through brick to the station on the other side. It’s been nearly two decades since Harry last saw platform nine and three-quarters, and at the sight of the wrought iron sign he almost feels eleven again, nervous and clinging to his mum. A few yards ahead, Piper has stopped short. She’s clutching her ruckstack straps with both hands and surveying the looming Hogwarts Express, steam billowing above them. 

“Daddy,” she says, voice a bit small, “You’ll write, won’t you?” 

Harry is glad Piper isn’t looking back at him, because he’s having a really difficult time keeping himself from tearing up. He takes a deep breath, trying to get his face under control. “Of course, butterbean. Every single day. We’ll write so much you’ll get annoyed with us. And we’ll be at Hogsmeade at weekends with Aunt Lou and Uncle Tom, and you can listen to Papa’s show on your wireless, whenever you want to.” 

“We didn’t forget it?” asks Piper, anxiously. “The wireless?” 

“Nope, I checked twice,” says Harry. Piper’s tall for eleven, but she’s not so tall as to prevent Harry from picking her up. He hoists her up close, holding her tightly. “I love you so much, butterbean. And you’ll have lots of people looking out for you up there. Lou’s having you over for tea, tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah,” says Piper, brightening. “Can we find everybody now? Let me down.” 

As always, Harry does as Piper requests. Once she’s safely on ground, he tucks her beanie more securely over her curls. He’s doing his best not to think about what’s coming next. 

 Nick and Felix barrel up beside them, Felix cackling as Nick narrates their progress through the station in a booming newscaster’s voice. When they slow to a stop, Felix hops off the trolley and turns to poke his fingers through the holes in the cat carrier. Piper goes to argue with him about it — “Stop it, Felix,” she’s saying, “She’s going through stuff, don’t make it worse!” — and Harry can make out the meows of the little calico in question. Harry’s heart clenches a little and he swallows hard. 

Nick puts a warm hand to Harry’s lower back. “Y’alright?” he asks, close to Harry’s ear. Harry leans back against him. 

“Viper Piper!” cries a high, carrying voice, and a brunette girl comes hurtling through the crowd to swing Piper, laughing, into the air. 

“Morning, Kate,” says Nick, snorting. 

“Hiya, Grimmy,” says Kate, swinging Piper back down to the ground. “You were right, I didn’t make Prefect. They’re fascists, though, so I don’t care. I’m not going to be a tool of the patriarchy.” 

“What’s a fascist?” asks Piper, curiously. 

“I’ll tell you on the Express,” says Kate. “We’ve got a compartment, prime location, you should come.” 

Harry’s stomach swoops unpleasantly at the thought of Piper disappearing into that big train, but he keeps smiling as best he can. He grabs for Nick’s hand blindly, and holds tight. 

“Hold up,” says Nick, “Hold your hippogriffs. Aren’t you supposed to say goodbye to your dear parents, or summat, young Katharine?” 

Kate rolls her eyes. “You know I hate that. My full name’s Kate.” 

“That’s never mattered much to Grimmy,” says Louis, coming up behind them. He hugs Harry quickly and messes up his hair, a habit he’s never grown out of. There are a lot of habits Louis has never grown out of. “Hey, Nick, Hazza. You lot are late, I see. Liam was having a coronary, thought you’d miss the train.” 

“Where is Liam?” asks Harry, peering around the packed station. “Thought they were coming up with you and El?” 

“Yeah, they did. I just saw Zayn, he says we’re to go to his after this for lunch. El’s off catching up with somebody or other, and Li got held up with the girls. You’d think with five of them they would be able to share, but no, apparently everyone needs their own hairbrush, or whatever.” 

“Well, they’re in different years and houses,” says Harry, reasonably. 

“Still. Seems unnecessary,” says Louis. “You got Niall’s last owl?” 

Harry nods. “He’s staying with us in October.” 

“Nice. He’s going to make Felix like him more than you, y’know.” 

Harry laughs. “He already does, it’s too late.” 

“That dick spoils them rotten and hands them back when they’ve shit themselves, of course they love him best,” snorts Louis. “Clever bastard. Oh — look, it’s Octavia — hold on, I have to go say hello.” He hurries over to a tall witch Harry recognises from the Montrose Magpies. Somehow during Harry’s conversation with Louis, Kate had run off as well. He can vaguely make out her brown hair behind Layla, who when she’s not transforming her nose into a beak bears considerable resemblance to her mother, although Perrie didn’t come out of the womb with violet hair. 

“So what do you think, chickadee?” asks Harry, turning back to the trolley and tousling Piper’s beanie. He pulls her in by the shoulders. “You ready for Hogwarts?” 

“Probably,” says Piper, biting at her nail and looking up at the train. “What house do you think I’ll be in? Same as Kate?” 

“Dunno!” says Harry. “I think a lot of that is up to you.” 

“Yeah, but what do you _think_ ,” asks Piper, more fervently. 

“I really don’t know! I wouldn’t want to Gryffin- _bore_ you with a theory,” says Harry, grinning brightly. Piper groans. “Oh, don’t give me that Huffle-guff, sneakoscope. You may want to Raven-claw your eyes out, but any way you’re sorted it’ll be a Slyther-win, especially since you’re Gryffin-dorable.” 

“Dad,” warns Piper, doing her best to keep her dimples from sinking in. 

Harry beams. “Sorry, was that a Gryffin-snore? Or was it just all the Raven-awe?” 

“Papa, Dad’s at it again,” whines Piper, tugging at Nick’s sleeve. 

“Is that e-Huffle-nuff, pygmy puff? Or is it just to be-Slyther-gin, merlop fin?” 

Nick gives Harry a soppy smile that’s probably meant to be a look of reproach. 

Harry giggles. “You may want to stick me in the Slyther-bin but I think that’s a bit Huffle-rough. I’m just following the letter of the Raven-law!” 

“Your wordplay is a thing of Gryffin-lore, Harold.” Harry turns to see Luna smiling at them, twisting her long blond hair up into a knot. Her twin boys head immediately for the cat carrier, talking softly with Felix and Piper. “Good morning, Grim. How are you?” 

“Haz is a bit emotional,” says Nick, looping his arm around Harry’s waist.

“ _Hey_ ,” says Harry. “Not just me. You cried last night at the note Piper left on the kitchen blackboard.” 

“It was a touching note,” protests Nick. “Meaningful!” 

“It said ‘poop.’” Harry raises an eyebrow. “That it. That was the whole message.” 

“The o’s had smily faces in them!” 

The clear sound of the train whistle rings through the air. All down the station, there’s a great bustle of reaction. Kids line up for final goodbyes and parents run forward with notes and small packages, shouting reminders through the windows of the carriages. The queue to load the trunks starts up, trolleys levitating one by one onto the train. 

Harry’s chest sinks in deep, like a great cavernous hole in his ribs. He clings as tightly as he possibly can to Nick’s hand. Luna kisses Lorcan and Lysander goodbye and they board the train, falling behind a pair of older years already in their Hogwarts uniforms. 

“Your turn, now,” says Nick, kneeling in front of Piper. “It’s going to be wicked, don’t you worry a bit. Just remember what I said about Peeves —” 

Piper throws her arms around Nick’s neck and presses her small face into his neck. Harry nearly loses it right there. 

“Love you, bird,” Nick is saying. He cups Piper’s face in both hands and kisses her forehead. “Say bye to your brother, now.” 

Piper makes a face, but a minute later Harry can hear her tell Felix that she’d write him every week. 

“Promise?” asks Felix. 

“Chin charm,” says Piper, and they jut out their jaws to glance chins. “There, now it’s binding.” 

“Alright, sneakoscope,” says Harry, his voice wobbling only a little bit. “Give us a cuddle.” 

Piper jumps into Harry’s arms and Harry tries not to think about how her laundry will be done by house-elves now, and would it be odd to ask them to use a specific charm so that she still smells like home. 

“Piper! C’mon!” demands Kate, beckoning from the window of the train. 

Piper’s head whips around and she beams, her dimples popping in. Harry sets her down and she runs for the door, curls bouncing, one hand holding onto her beanie so it doesn’t slip off. A moment later she reappears in the window next to Kate, waving. 

“Take care of our girl, Tomlinson!” calls Nick. 

“I promise, Grimmy!” calls Kate. The train starts to rumble, the sound filling the station. “If anyone says anything bad I’ll rip out their small intestines and strangle them with their own teeth, I’ll crush in their skulls and skin the —”

The train is too loud now to hear what Kate’s saying, but Harry can get the basic idea. Maybe it’s not just Jack who’s been listening to Louis’s Quidditch stories. With a great rumble, the train starts to move and Harry goes along with it, smiling and waving, trying not to give in to the tears that are filling his eyes.

The train rounds the corner, disappearing from sight with a final gust of steam. Harry makes a choked, involuntary noise. 

“Daddy?” asks Felix, nervously. 

“Your father is having a strong emotional response,” says Luna. “Let’s go and see Zayn and Perrie and wait for him to finish it.” Luna takes Felix by the hand and they walk across the station to where Perrie and Zayn are wiping dirt off of their son’s face. Jethro may not be a metamorphagus like his sister, but he’s similarly dedicated to self-transformation. 

“Alright, sweetheart?” asks Nick, wrapping Harry up. Harry takes a deep, watery breath into the familiar curve of his shoulder. “Cor, I wish Finchy was still at Hogwarts. She’d give him hell.”

“She’s so big,” sniffs Harry. “We should have another baby.” 

“We already have another baby,” laughs Nick. 

“No, like a proper baby. A little one, who won’t go away.” 

“They all go off eventually, darling,” says Nick, running his fingers through Harry’s curls. He sounds a little choked up. “They’ll come back.” 

Harry presses his fingers into the dragonhide of Nick’s jacket, holding on tight. 

Nick clears his throat. “Anyway, don’t trust you with another one, you’d want to name it something horrible again.” 

“Rupert isn’t horrible,” says Harry, leaning back a bit so he can wipe at his eyes. “I think it’s cute.” 

Nick scoffs. “Rupert Styles-Grimshaw sounds like a posh hedgehog in a Beatrix Bloxam book, Harold. He’d have no chance of being cool with a name like that.” 

“You wanted to name Fee Merlin, Nicholas. You have no ground to stand on.” 

“Merlin is a _wicked_ name. People would swear his name. No one would forget it.” Nick grins, big and toothy, and tucks some of Harry’s hair out of his eyes. His fingers linger on Harry’s face, thumbs sweeping over the line of his cheekbone. “There, that’s better, love. Everything’s alright.” 

A few years ago Harry had gone on a naturalist expedition to search for a species of cockatrices that were said to live only in one specific cavern in Mexico. The cave had been as deep as a New York City skyscraper, and the air inside was damp and pitch black. Harry had felt like he could fall forever and never reach solid ground. It was vast, and lonely. Sometimes, though, a flock of parakeets would gather and descend together in a delirious plumy avalanche, surrounding Harry’s body with the beat of their feathers. That’s how Nick’s smile makes Harry feel: like it can fill a cold and clammy darkness with the sound of wings. 

“I love you,” says Harry, for the thousandth time. 

“I love you too,” says Nick. No matter how many times Nick tells him, a little fear flashes in his eyes just before he speaks. It’s alright. He says it anyway. 

A throng of sparrows swoop overhead, chirping. The air is crisp and cold, and the sun bright. Across the station, their friends are waiting. All is well. 

**Author's Note:**

> I laugh at my own jokes and will answer any (and all!) questions about this at my [tumblr](http://waspabi.tumblr.com), where there is also an [exciting tag](http://waspabi.tumblr.com/tagged/accio-my-heart) just for this. Extras live [here](http://waspabi.tumblr.com/post/61332489130/masterlist-of-accio-related-asks-extras-asks). 
> 
> Oh, and an Accio My Heart soundtrack is perpetually growing [here](http://8tracks.com/upontrees/accio-my-heart/).


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